BSG: S5, Episode Five: The Domino Effect
by MissiAmphetamine
Summary: (On hold due to writer's block) Starbuck tries to find out what she is, which leads her to a Two, Paulla resumes doing what she does best, Lee struggles with his ethics and discovers Starbuck's been keeping a secret from him, Romo finds Jake's death is an unpleasant catalyst, and trouble arises in Landfall in the night. (Sequel to "The Trials and Tribulations of Parenthood")
1. Setting Up the Pieces - Part One

Episode Five: The Domino Effect

_Author's Note:_ Thank you again to everyone who leaves comments – you folks are great. And now we're on to Episode Five…

It is completely _M-Rated_ for violence, death, sex, adult themes etc. Also, there's a _trigger warning_ for the beginning of this chapter, which covers the topic of _suicide_.

It's mainly focused on Lee and Starbuck with Romo as a secondary focus, and the characters will be going to some (relatively IMO) dark places, which is always fun :D

This chapter and some/all of the others will be much shorter than my previous chapters, because if I don't cut them in half they total 8,000 words or more each and it would take forever to get them finished and posted with the slow state of my writing at the moment. I've only just finished chapter two, instead of being my usual episode ahead and it grates on me *headdesk* Posting this way you'll get updates more often, at least. I'm still writing the episode in the format of six separate parts, but each part will be divided in two when I post. Anyway,

_Enjoy!_

# # #

_Setting Up the Pieces – Part One_

Leon's breakfast sat untouched beside him as his fingers quietly shredded the sheet he had stripped from his bed. The threadbare material parted easily in long strips, and his lips moved as he worked, murmuring prayers, over and over and over. He sat on the cold floor with his back against the door of his cell, so that if a guard looked through the small window set into the door they wouldn't be able to see what he was doing.

"Father, why have you forsaken me? I have tried, tried so hard to make…make her see. But you won't tell me what it is she _needs_ to see. Won't tell me what to…what to say." Leon pleaded with the air in a thin whisper as his fingers nimbly braided the sheet into a short rope, eyes fixed unfocusedly on the growing plait.

The strips were stronger when they were bound together. That was a good metaphor for life. A very good metaphor. Stronger when they were bound. Leon had tried to bind her to him, but she had resisted. He wove the strips quickly, not knowing if or when an LPO might check on him. Starbuck always resisted. It was in her nature; burning in her eyes like fire, searing her from within. It would burn her up one day if she didn't learn to control it, to temper it – it would consume her in a righteous holy conflagration.

Leon sighed and shook his head, the small gesture full of regret. Starbuck would never go quietly, not with him. Never surrender. She had always fought. But then sometimes that had been part of the fun. Leon smirked, humming tunelessly under his breath as he wove his hangman's rope. His mind wandered, skipped and danced over the stepping-stones in the stream, watching the shimmering reflections in the water.

"Prophecy is never wrong. Except… Sometimes maybe it is…mistaken?" Leon asked, head tilted to the side, but no answer came. No answer ever came anymore, no matter if he was alone where no one else could hear. It was all just silence, a dreadful, unbearable silence, and so he filled it with his own voice. Sometimes Leon got lost and couldn't remember what was real anymore; what he had been told, what he had seen, and what his own mind had made up. It was a terrible problem. But not for much longer. He smiled, down at the thin dirty greyish strips of sheet, weaving in and out and around and through. Remembered.

"You're going to hold me in your arms, you're going to embrace me, you're going to tell me that you love me. I've seen it."

He snorted softly, humour laced with the sharp sting of failure. He had been so sure at the time, so determined and convinced. But it was never going to happen, not to him. Not to Leon. He had seen wrong. It can't have been prophecy. Or if it had, it must have…he didn't know any more. Anyway, now, at the end – the true end, the forever end, it didn't seem to matter so much anymore. The longing had faded from a consuming obsession to a simple, bittersweet sadness.

Finally the rope was finished and Leon nodded, jerked on it vigorously to test its strength. The thin material, bound tightly together, held strong. Was it the binding or the together that made it strong? Could you even have one without the other? Intrinsically linked. He fashioned a slipknot, smiling to himself.

"I loved you, Kara Thrace."

Leon tied one end of the short homemade rope around the high, round door handle. It was the highest thing in the room that would hold his weight, and he could rig the rope to a length that meant simply sitting down would cause enough tension to kill him. Only two kilos of pressure were required to compress the jugular veins – five kilos to compress the carotid artery – and compression would cause loss of consciousness within around fifteen seconds. Death could occur at any point within a range of two to twenty minutes.

It would be rather undignified, dying by hanging himself off a door handle, but it would do. He would not be here to see the indignity, would not be here to care. He would be gone – a salmon, swimming up the stream perhaps. Returning to the stream. Or at least, that was what he hoped.

Leon went up on his knees and carefully placed the noose over his head, snugged it around his neck. He wished he could leave a suicide note, but he had nothing to write with. It was a terrible thing, to have to leave this world without saying your parting farewell. His fingers twitched over a short length of rope on the floor.

"My gift to you." Leon said to the stale, empty air of his cell, the image of Kara in his mind's eye. He tried to picture her happy, smiling at him, laughing – the joyous unrestrained sound that he had overheard a handful of times. But all he could summon was the image of her glaring at him; her eyes alight with loathing as she mocked him out on the plains. _Yeah, to get killed by me a whole bunch. Some destiny, __Leoben__._ He had held the gun, but she had held the power. She always held the power, she just didn't realise it.

"Is it you killing me this time, Kara? Or this time is it me? Am I making this choice, or is it you? Did you drive me to this? Is this my destiny? Or a mistake? Or just a way out? Forgive me, God. I can't do this anymore. I can't carry your word…she won't listen to me…won't…." Leon muttered muzzily to himself as he shifted on his knees; the floor hard and uncomfortable beneath them. Soon enough he would leave all bodily discomforts behind. Floating down the stream.

Leon wished he could tell Kara this wasn't her fault. He didn't want to hurt her if she blamed herself, and if she was glad…then he didn't want her thinking his death was her achievement. This was his destiny. It was a secession of the pain and the confusion that kept growing in his mind, and a welcomed sinking into oblivion. Permanent rest.

Leon smiled softly.

He sat down.

The rope tightened and pressure wrapped around his throat and throbbed up into his head, built and built; he could feelthe braid of thin, dirty cloth compressing his jugular veins, cutting off the blood flow to his brain.

Lights flashed behind his eyes…ringing sounded in his ears.

It felt…

Everything went…

Dark.

# # #

"Oh gods…oh gods…" Starbuck's fingers slipped over the lean muscles of Lee's arm, curling up over his shoulder and digging into his back as she arched her back and moaned. He thrust and she whimpered and moaned, head tilted back and eyes squeezed so tightly shut that lights flashed behind her eyes.

It felt…

Starbuck's other hand grabbed hold of the pillow beneath her head and squeezed it tightly, balling a corner up in her fist as she gasped for breath and clutched at his back.

"Oh my _gods_ – Lee…" The words came out a stifled plea and Lee thrust harder and she mewled louder, legs clamping around his hips, pelvis tipping toward his. He felt so big, so deep, he filled her like…like she was meant to be…like completion…and still she wanted _more_, wanted _harder_, wanted…

"Oh _gods_."Starbuck's flesh twitched around his cock – she was wet and hot and pulsing as he slid in and out, her nerves so sensitised that every thrust felt like torture. And she craved it – and, and…it pushed her over the edge. Starbuck let out a shivering low moan as she started to come and both her hands clutched at Lee's shoulders, fingers clawing into him reflexively. Her orgasm rolled over her – the fourth time since he had woken her with a kiss and a squeeze of her ass – and some how it was more intense than the other three put together. It felt like her body was shaking apart at the seams, convulsing and twitching and almost hurting deep inside. She opened her eyes and watched him as she came; Lee's sun browned skin was sheened with sweat and his teeth indented his lower lip as he frakked Starbuck through her orgasm – his head bent and eyes slitted half-shut, grinding himself into her just the way she liked.

And then the intensity began to ease and her orgasm ebbed away, leaving her throbbing and tender and so exquisitely aware of his cock.

"Ohmigods _Lee_." The words fell scrambled and slurred from Starbuck's lips, and she let out a choked half-sob half-moan.

"Good?" Lee asked smugly, his sharp eyes flitting to Starbuck's. She smiled like the cat that got the cream, lazy and heavy-lidded as he moved within her – slower and gentler now. Starbuck pulled him down closer to her, his weight on her, pushing her into the bed, heavy and solid and somehow so godsdamned hot.

"_Frak_ yes…" she breathed and held up a hand, wiggled four fingers.

"Four?" Lee's eyes widened with surprise and she nodded, smirking and actually blushing a little – not that Lee would be able to tell. She was hot and flushed all over from the sex, skin sticky and limbs shaky.

"Four." Starbuck murmured confirmation, squirming under him and squeaking out a moan as he thrust harder. A wicked smile spread over Lee's face and he grinned at her, dropping a kiss on the corner of her mouth, his lips warm and soft.

"I still haven't come yet, you know." He raised an eyebrow, waggled them both.

"Uh huh." A breathless little waver of acknowledgement and anticipation, the pit of her stomach fluttering, making her fingers twitch involuntarily where they lay now on his forearms.

"I'm just gonna have to keep frakking you 'til I come."

"Uh…uh huh."

"Glad you understand," Lee replied, quiet and rough with a smile lingering, which faded as he began to move harder and faster inside her again. It felt overwhelming; Starbuck was so over-sensitised that she could feel too frakking much. She mewled and writhed and her hands blindly searched for something to grab onto, to anchor her. Lee was balanced on just one elbow over her, his weight half crushing her breasts against his chest and his free hand gripping the curve of her hip, kneading her flesh and holding her still as he frakked her. Harder and faster and it was too much, too much her head was spinning and – oh _gods_ it felt like she was going to catch fire or melt or…

"Oh frak yes oh gods Lee please…please…_please_." Starbuck whimpered a stream of nonsense words, no idea what she was pleading for. Her flesh was swollen and tender, and she couldn't take anymore, but oh _frak _it was just so _good_. Starbuck buried her face against Lee's throat, and her fingers wound their way up, into his hair, raking through it roughly, greedily.

"Mmph." Lee made a small muffled sound and his fingers dug cruelly into her hip as he pulled out; Starbuck's hand slipping between their bodies and gripping his cock – slick and wet with her own juices. Her fingers wrapped around it, gliding up and down light and quick, and Lee dropped his forehead to her throat with a gasp, fingers still digging into the swell of her hip. He made a soft moan, stifled by his lips pressing themselves against her skin as he came, hot spatters on her belly.

"Oh." Starbuck exhaled hard as Lee rolled off her, and her muscles went all limp like a rag doll's. She just breathed for a while, and then rolled her head to gaze at Lee lying next to her and he smiled lazily, mellow and contented in the afterglow of orgasm.

"Fun?" she mumbled with a lopsided smile.

"Mmph. Mm hmm," was all Lee managed, and twined his sex-sticky fingers with her own, squeezing.

"Good." Starbuck sighed, chest still rising and falling hard as she stared dazedly up at the ceiling.

"Gods. That was a frak and a half," she said and snorted with weak laughter and Lee squeezed her fingers again emphatically.

"Uh huh."

They lay flopped side by side for a while, and then Starbuck rolled out of bed reluctantly, and washed with the deliciously hot water out of a big pot – nestled in the coals of the fire for that purpose. Clean and damp, she opened the shutters, letting the sun and the warm air stream in and bathe her skin. It was a gorgeous morning – just coming up on nine from the sun's height in the sky. Starbuck luxuriated naked in front of the windows that looked out over toward Landfall, sun warming and drying her skin, acutely aware of Lee's eyes on her as she stretched.

"Breakfast?" she asked him as she dressed in pants and a worn old regulation singlet, and Lee nodded and finally hauled his ass out of bed with a groan.

They ate slightly burnt fried potato-root slices that were left over from last night's dinner, with a couple of strips of dried venison each. The most you could say about it was that it was food, not that Starbuck was fussy.

"Thith ith goot," Lee mumbled through a mouthful of potato, before contorting his face and plucking a large blackened flake of potato skin out of his mouth. Starbuck arched a sceptical eyebrow and he swallowed the potato with a wince and shrugged,

"I'm used to your cooking now."

"Ha. Ha. Ha," Starbuck retorted deadpan.

"It's edible," he pointed out with a wave of his fork,

"Better than the shi…I mean, ah, the ah, whatever it was, the other day. What _was_ that anyway?"

"It was a _pie_. You _know_ it was a pie," Starbuck ground out. The pie was still a sore spot, even days later. She had spent _hours_ on that pie, and then she'd forgotten about it while it was in the coals, and burnt did not even _begin_ to describe it. The bread that had substituted for pastry had been charred to a crisp, and she'd spent what felt like forever scraping off all the burnt bits so it was edible. He was a frakking asshole, bringing that up again – and then Lee's lips twitched with humour and Starbuck realised the bastard was teasing her.

"That's not frakking funny, Lee. I spent ages on that godsdamned pie, and then…"

"It kind of is. A little bit." Lee gave her a look that was all boyish innocence, and Starbuck rolled her eyes at him but couldn't help smiling, annoyance melting away.

"Is not," she shot back but a feeling of warmth ran through her. This was good. This was what she wanted, what she craved – to be able to be with Lee and have everything easy, happy, comfortable. These moments were still too few and far between, and she clutched each one tight to her chest when they happened. Soaked them up. Although it _was_ getting better. Ever since that day out on the plains – since the lion and Leon – things had been so much better. Most of the time. There were still things… Like not knowing what the hell she actually was even after swallowing her pride and talking to Ellen Tigh last week…and then there was Lee's dissident movement, and his increasingly distant and weird behaviour lately, and Sam… But Starbuck refused to think about those things right now.

"Okay, it's not funny. I'm sorry," Lee was saying, but his lips were still twitching, threatening a smile, and his eyes sparkled at her.

"Just for that, you're doing the dishes." Starbuck got up and dumped her scraped clean plate in the dishwater bucket, dipping some pine needle tea out of the bark kettle over the fire, savouring the scent; familiar and comforting now. Lee's arms slipped around her waist a few moments later; warm and strong, and she leaned back into him, smiling to herself. Yeah. This was good.

"You working today?"

"No, I've got today off. I'm on the early shift with Romo tomorrow." Starbuck paused and bit her lip, debating her next words and how to say them.

"I was wanting to go into Landfall anyway though," she said, a little nervous.

"You mean without me, right?" he asked, with a hint of an edge to his voice and Starbuck stiffened, twisted in his arms so she could look over her shoulder at him.

"Oh godsdamnit, Lee. You always –"

"Shh – it's fine. Go," Lee interrupted, and grinned at her confused expression. This was the one thing they always fought about – Starbuck taking off without Lee. She had been mentally gearing up for a screaming match and the usual name calling and swearing, followed by her storming out in furious tears. She blinked, all the fight taken out of her.

"Really?" She turned around completely, pine needle tea held out to one side, her face kissing distance from Lee's – and she felt like kissing him for not starting an argument.

"Really. Go…drink with Hoshi, or whatever the hell it is you do." He meant it and Starbuck grinned gleefully, delighted,

"Drink with Hoshi – yeah, I reckon I can manage that." She smirked at him and kissed him hard on the lips, ignoring the hot tea sloshing onto her bare foot as the cup tipped unheeded in her hand. Lee tasted of burnt potato-root and tea, and his hand cradled her throat, thumb over her pulse point, warm and rough as he kissed her firmly in return.

# # #

Author's Note: Yay, Lee and Starbuck are having happy sexy times! A Two has offed himself! That's not exactly yay, though… I looked up what happens when one hangs oneself, so the information regarding the suicide in this chapter and later chapters is as accurate as Wikipedia, however accurate that may be.

Because this episode is going to become darker, and the characters will be going through/enacting some heavy shit, I'm very interested in knowing whether or not they stay pretty much in character – taking their current circumstances into consideration, of course. BSG really did quite a lot of very dark, intense, emotional stuff, and so I think the tone of this episode (not so much this chapter but it's coming) should fit in with the show's tone but, well, I worry. So advice = good. I'm not much for rewriting I must admit, but I _will_ gladly take advice given and keep it in mind for future episodes at least.

So, you know the drill by now, people. Leave me a _review_ and give me motivation to write more and faster :D The more reviews I get, the quicker the story gets to you!


	2. Setting Up the Pieces - Part Two

_Disclaimer:_ Whoops, last time I forgot you, disclaimer, so here you are. I, Missiamphetamine, do not own BSG or any of the show's characters, and make no profit from my fanfiction.

_Author's Note:_ Thank you so much to my lovely reviewers! I appreciate every comment, and your feedback is a big part of what keeps me writing when I get writer's block and want to throw the towel in.

I'm a busy girl at the moment. God knows why, but I started writing a Harry Potter fic, which is just an indulgence in 'shipping and angst, but great fun to write. I'm all about the angst at the moment, and if you are too, you should check it out. But don't worry, I'm still hard at work on this episode – this series has my first priority :)

_Enjoy!_

# # #

_Setting Up the Pieces – Part Two_

"Is _he_ in?" Manya raised a dark eyebrow and jerked her chin delicately at the door. Salty nodded but didn't look happy, shifting uncomfortably on his feet and Manya paused and looked Salty carefully up and down before she opened the door. She didn't bother knocking anymore. He never answered.

"What has he done now?"

Salty shifted uncomfortably, but under Manya's stern unwavering gaze he eventually broke down and with his eyes on his boots, admitted,

"He sent me over to Joe's last night."

"He sent you to buy alcohol? And you went?" Manya sighed, disappointed and Salty looked even more hangdog and ashamed of himself; like a small boy caught in mischief.

"He's the President, Ms Yelizarov. What am I supposed to do? I can't say no."

"And I suppose Joe gave it to you, even though he knew full well who the alcohol was for?" Manya continued and Salty shrank even more, nodding slightly.

"Yeah." The word was said so quietly Manya could barely hear it, and she pursed her lips and shook her head sadly.

"How much did he drink?"

"I don't know. He's in there and I'm out here. And it's sorta my job to stay out here." Salty defended himself fruitlessly. Manya wasn't interested in excuses. With the way Romo was drinking at the moment, she wouldn't be surprised if he drowned in a pool of his own vomit one night. If only he wasn't such a godsdamned functional alcoholic during daylight hours, she might be able to force him to get some sort of help. Although, there weren't exactly resources in Landfall to help Romo deal with his issues anyway. Manya was probably his best and only option.

"How much did you get him, then?"

"Two jugs of rotgut," he mumbled.

"Oh my _gods_…rotgut? Merciful Zeus…" Manya heaved a sigh and looked up at the sky, trying to suppress the intense irritation – bordering on rage – that grew each and every day. Her fingers massaged her temples unconsciously, trying to rub away the burgeoning headache. She was so weary of this. She wanted to just walk in there and _slap_ him. Gods, maybe it would do him some good. It could hardly hurt at this point.

"Well _thank_ you, Salty." She took some of her annoyance out on the poor boy in scathing tones, and glared at him briefly before taking a deep breath and opening the door to the President's home.

Gods.

The shutters were drawn and the only light came from the stub of a candle burning in the kitchen and the cracks in the shutters. It was dark and musty, and Manya carefully felt her way forward, hissing and swearing as she stubbed her toe on something in the dark. She heard movement and called Romo's name softly,

"Romo? Romo I know you're in here. Somewhere," she added the last under her breath. The place seemed eerie – dark, and clean to the point of emptiness, and with the stale air from the shutters being latched closed for so long it seemed like no one lived here. For almost two weeks Romo had been living like this. He had attended the Council meeting like always, and signed the papers he was asked to, but he wasn't really present. His mind was somewhere else; maybe back on Gemenon with his family, Manya thought with an entirely inappropriate twinge of jealousy.

"Romo?" Manya called again, making her way through to the bedroom. Romo looked up at her but didn't speak. He was sitting on the bed with his shoulders against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him – a jug in one hand that he was just lowering from his lips. His hair was mussed and his cheeks more stubbled than usual, eyes hooded and unreadable in the light. Manya smiled at him and he stared at her, still silent, and took another measured sip of the rotgut. Manya rolled her eyes and sighed.

"Romo, you're drinking again?" She shook her head and sighed, standing at the foot of the bed with her arms crossed over her chest.

"I worry about you. It is _not_ good to be drinking like this – to be living like this."

Romo shrugged indifferently, bringing the jug back up to his lips and taking a long drink.

"When was the last time you ate something?" Manya tried again and Romo finally spoke. It was disconcerting; his voice was almost as smooth as ever, with only the faintest trace of inebriation and emotion slurring and roughening it.

"Yesterday. When you made me eat some lunch. Don't you remember?"

"I do. I am surprised you do, however. And I was hoping you had actually remembered to eat dinner, but I can see that was a vain hope."

Romo swung his legs off the bed and stood up – taller than her and smelling faintly of sweat and strongly of alcohol, the jug of booze dangling from careless fingers. He walked toward her, backing her up against the screen that divided bedroom from living area and Manya bit her lip, nervous and annoyed at once. He was standing too close and her eyes narrowed; he was crowding her on purpose – hoping she would feel uncomfortable and leave him to his wallowing.

"Why are you here, Ms Yelizarov?" Romo stared down at her, face weary, tired lines etched into is features, eyes pouched beneath from lack of sleep and food and too much alcohol. Manya tossed her head and lifted her chin, glaring at him.

"Because you need to pull yourself together. You're the President, Romo. You can't hide away in here, _wallowing_ in your grief any longer." She wavered in her resolve as Romo flinched at her words, his eyes dropping from her face. Gods he looked so broken. Manya pulled herself together and took a deep breath, pressing on.

"You may be attending the meetings and signing the papers, but you are not present, Romo. You are distracted at work, and in your private life…you have shut yourself off, and are drinking yourself into the ground. This can't continue!"

Romo took a step back and another drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and half-turning away from Manya. She kept her arms crossed tightly over her chest, staring at the back of his head and waiting for an answer. By the gods, he was going to talk to her today; if she had to godsdamned _force_ him, he _would_ talk. Manya was sick of this. She understood what he was going through, and she sympathised, but in reacting this way Romo was setting himself up to be removed from the office of the President – and that couldn't happen. Romo was the best President that the colonists could hope for; get rid of him, and they would be left with either Saul Tigh, or most likely either Tercel, Jeffries or Sheridan, whose little alliance gave them voting power.

She kept waiting, and a moment later Romo turned around and pointed at Manya, finger trembling and unsteady in the air between them.

"You just said it yourself. I'm carrying out my duties as President. I'm capable and functional, and doing my frakking job, Ms Yelizarov. And what I bloody well do in my own time is my own godsdamned business!" His voice roughened with anger as he spoke, and by the time he finished he was nearly snarling and Manya felt so, so sorry for him. He must be in so much pain. She could see it written on his face, clear in his every action; broadcast loudly every time he tried to push her away by addressing her so formally, every time he drank himself to the bottom of another bottle.

"Since when am I _Ms Yelizarov_, Romo?"

Romo blinked but didn't say anything, a shadow crossing his face – confusion, regret, sadness – and then the emotion was gone, and his face was hidden by the jug of rotgut he lifted to his mouth. Manya swallowed and continued speaking, using her calmest, most professional voice. It wasn't easy when you were intimately connected to the person you were trying to help.

"Romo, you're experiencing what is called _delayed grief_." She stepped forward and Romo matched her advance with a retreating step of his own.

"You never grieved for your family. You pushed those feelings down…and then there was so much else for you to focus on – survival, the dangers of life on the Fleet, the Cylon threat. So much happened in a relatively short space of time, and you never had, never _took_ the time to acknowledge what had happened."

"Shut…shut up." Romo shook his head, denying her words.

Manya pressed on,

"You were probably filled with survivor's guilt, despair, sorrow, anger…and you weren't able to confront the emotions you felt. They were too strong, too threatening. Perhaps you were afraid that if you acknowledged any of them, even a little bit, you wouldn't be able to control it, and the feelings would overwhelm you. Crush you under their weight."

"No."

"And so you repressed it all. Consciously or unconsciously, you pushed all those emotions down and told yourself they didn't exist. You shut down that part of yourself – or tried to, at least. You never grieved."

"No." Romo shook his head, jug of rotgut dangling from his hand, forgotten, frightened eyes glued reluctantly to Manya's. She held his gaze, her own gentle but firm. It was like ripping off a sticking plaster – it had to be done, like it or not. The wound beneath needed to be aired, not left in the dark to fester.

"When Lance was killed you had to repress your emotions all over again. His death – his pointless _murder_ – brought up all the old feelings about your family, and this time the emotions wouldn't be repressed or ignored – not entirely, at least. But you refused to address them and work through them in a healthy manner, and so they emerged as that time when you pretended that Lance was still alive – when you had a breakdown, losing faith in humanity, carrying Lance's body around, and talking to him. Which culminated of course, in you holding a gun on Lee Adama and –"

"How did you know all that?" The almost frightened denial that Romo had been clinging to began to clear and his question was sharp.

"You have alluded to it before, in general terms. But I learnt some details from Mr Adama yesterday," Manya said unashamedly.

"You asked Lee Adama about what happened?" Rage twisted Romo's voice and he stalked back toward Manya, anger sweeping away the impotence his fear of his grief had created in him. Now he was just angry and his eyes glittered dangerously and Manya skittered back against the screen once more as he closed on her.

"You went behind my back and asked _Lee_?"

"I did what I had to do, Romo. How am I supposed to help you get out of this depression and process your grief if I don't know –"

"_You went behind my godsdamned back!_" Romo shouted the words at her, slurred and furious and Manya couldn't help flinching, shoulder blades pressed into the screen behind her as she instinctively shrank into herself. He was not a tall man, but Manya was a petite woman, and Romo was tall enough to intimidate her; looming menacingly with all evidence of his usual self-control just vanished.

"I needed information so that I could better help you. What you are doing is not mentally or emotionally healthy, or sustainable long term – and as the President you need to be fit for office. As a counsellor –"

"I'm doing my godsdamned job! As long as I'm doing my job and doing it capably, you have no frakking excuse to pry into my private affairs!" His voice lowered and yet grew more vehement and Manya was speechless in the face of his anger.

"This has _nothing_ to do with the noble counsellor trying to help someone, and everything to do with some _woman_ clutching at straws and trying to find ways to insinuate herself back into a man's life after she's been evicted from it – rejected!"

It was as though he had struck her in the stomach. The air slipped from Manya's lungs and her jaw dropped, eyes welling with tears that she refused to shed as she processed his words. He was right to a certain degree, as much as she hated to admit it. She was here – no, not to try to _insinuate_ herself with Romo, but to help him because she cared about him on a personal level. She had thought she _was_ 'insinuated', despite his retreat into depression lately. She had never thought that… Evicted and rejected? Gods that _hurt_. Hurt far worse than the implication of unprofessional motives, because well – they were mostly unprofessional.

"I – I was unaware that I had been _rejected_," Manya enunciated carefully in a small and breathless voice – calm manner having abandoned her completely. Romo swallowed hard and looked down at the jug of booze swinging from his hand – took a slug and coughed as the drink burnt its way down.

"Yes, well, I was unaware that we had anything so official as to need me to _reject_ you, really, Ms Yelizarov." Romo gave a small bitter smile and shrugged a shoulder,

"I had been under the impression that we were merely friendly bed partners. Friends who could enjoy the occasional _frak_. If I had known you had thought we were some great and epic romance…" He trailed off while shaking his head and approximating a look of pity.

Manya pursed her lips and thrust her chin up defiantly, said damned chin betraying her by trembling with unwelcome emotion. She knew exactly what Romo was trying to do, and godsdamnit even though she _knew_; she still couldn't stop it from provoking in her what he wanted to provoke. Anger, hurt, humiliation, more _anger_. He wanted to drive her away, so that he could dwell in his drunken depression undisturbed by anyone who cared about him.

"Very well," Manya said in a strained but level voice, and ruined the effect of control with a wet sniff.

"I had no idea you had absolutely no romantic feelings toward me, Romo. I suppose I – I assumed things I, I should not have." Manya paused with a little half-gasp and tried to steady her voice. Romo was standing so close to her that the smell of alcohol on his breath was slightly dizzying, his eyes looking down at hers dark in the low light. She could feel his body heat, radiating off him. He looked terrible, and he was acting like an asshole, and he was drunk as frak despite his composure, and he looked so _sad_, and…Manya just wanted to kiss him. Frak him. It was intellectually a most inappropriate urge to have, but completely understandable. People often found both anger and vulnerability a headily arousing combination. She realised her breathing was coming shallower and quicker and gulped.

"But – but even without being intimately involved with you, I still care about you…Mr President. And what you have been doing, how you have been acting since Jake's death…it is not healthy, and it needs to stop. You need to process all these feelings you are experiencing in a healthy way, and begin moving on."

Manya finished her little speech and gazed at Romo expectantly, her heart beating frantically in the cage of her chest.

"No. I don't," he said at last. His voice was flat, and his face was hard and closed off, and Manya winced, pain worming inside her. She just wanted to help him. She cared about him…she…she loved him. She wanted to help him find a way through this minefield of grief and depression and come out whole on the other side. But she couldn't help him do that if he didn't _want_ her help. A hollow feeling settled within her. A touch of despair, perhaps, or maybe hopelessness.

Romo took a step back and waved a hand toward the gap in the screen, toward the door.

"You can go now. We're done here."

"Romo…"

"Thank you for stopping by, Ms Yelizarov."

"Romo, please. Just let me…"

"No."

Manya's shoulders slumped and she slowly made her way toward the door, and as she grasped the door handle she turned around to see Romo lingering in the doorway to the bedroom. He looked as miserable as she felt – more so, even, and Manya lost the last of her tenuous self-control.

"Don't make me go. _Please_."

Romo bit his lip and shut his eyes, pain etching itself into his face, and Manya saw his fingers tighten around the handle of the jug he still carried. He opened his mouth to speak, and Manya waited with bated breath.

"I," he said and then stopped, mouth drawing into a thin line and head dropping so his eyes were fixed on the floor. Manya crossed the room with a few swift steps, stopping before him, and her hand lifted to fit itself to the curve of Romo's cheek and jaw. He let her hand remain there and warmth threaded a delicate path through her body and settled in her heart.

"Romo." She spoke his name and he looked at her. So much grief, and Manya wanted to wipe it all away. It was unprofessional and impossible besides, but Manya's attempt at objectivity couldn't be more compromised. She kissed him.

Soft and lingering at first; her barely parted lips meeting his and just pressing for a moment. And then she swept the tip of her tongue over his lower lip and caught it between her own lips and cautious teeth. Tugged a little, sucked on it and Romo made a soft sound. He seemed to approve, because his hand buried itself in her long, loose hair and balled into a fist as he kissed her back, his tongue teasing hers, warm and velvety. He tasted like alcohol and his tangled fingers in her hair pulled and made her scalp sting, but Manya didn't care. It felt so selfishly good to know he still desired her. Tingles trickled down through her to settle in Manya's lower belly and at the crux between her thighs, blood pulsing and throbbing and she moaned quietly into the kiss.

Optimistic thoughts of helping him, of counselling him, talking to him…it all went out of her mind and she twined herself against him eagerly, desperately. Her hands grabbed at him and held him close; one hand cupping his head at the base of his skull, the other clutching the material of his shirt at his side and pulling him to her. The kiss became deeper and rougher, and Romo's stubble scratched Manya's skin as he broke from her mouth, hand in her hair dragging her head back and exposing her throat as he kissed his way down it. She swayed and his arm wrapped around her body and held her safe, the jug of rotgut digging into her back.

"Oh gods, Romo…"

His mouth met hers again, rough and possessive and Manya shivered and melted and kissed him back just as fiercely. His mouth was soft, wet and warm, and she felt herself flutter with arousal, aching, wanting him to just frak her – just push her to the ground, or up against a wall, or onto the bed, and frak her. His hand released her hair and he backed up, pulling her with him, spinning them around and pushing her abruptly backward. Manya gasped, not expecting the light shove, and tumbled onto the bed on her back, an anticipatory smile curving her lips. She licked them as he took a swig from the rotgut – a twist of wrongness flashed through her but she pushed it back and drowned it beneath her heady desire. She didn't want to think about being responsible, or Romo's drunkenness, or his myriad of emotional issues. She had feelings too.

And oh gods, right now Manya wanted him to _frak_ her.

Romo was unsteady when he returned to the foot of the bed after putting the jug of alcohol down on the bedside table and his eyes had a glaze to them, but he managed to unbutton his pants with a few clumsy movements and then sprawled on the bed. He held himself up over her on his elbows, his right hand searching up beneath her skirt. Manya turned her head and tilted her face up to his and he lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her soft and deep, his breath catching in his throat as his fingers tugged her underwear down. And then it was Manya's turn to gasp and a moan slipped from her lips as Romo's fingers slipped over her sensitive flesh; she was slick with arousal and so greedy for his touch. Her hips bucked up and he made a smug humming sound and sucked on the tip of her tongue, making her spine tingle and her hands grab tight at the bedcover.

"Mmph." She wanted him so badly. It was purely selfish. Nothing to do with making _him_ feel better, or distracting him from his grief, or frakking the depression out of him or any silly ideas like that. Manya had missed him. It had been two long weeks that he had been trying to avoid her, refusing to be intimate; treating her almost like a stranger. Unresponsive – cold and distant. She had missed him and to have his hands on her like this, making her feel…so…

"Oh…" The breathy exclamation fell from her mouth as Romo's finger slid inside her, and her flesh welcomed the sensation, revelled in it. Gods it had been far too long. Manya had almost forgotten how good it was with Romo, even, apparently, when he was drunk as frak and…

And then a second finger joined the first, moving slow and smooth in and out and in and oh gods it was perfect it was so good it was…was…oh _gods_…

Manya's mind splintered and coherent thought left her. She moaned and Romo's mouth sucked on her neck, nipped at the delicate skin as she arched her back and clutched at the bedcover with unthinking fingers and wanted _more_. And then Romo was moving to lie fully on top of her and he was fumbling to shove his pants further down his hips and Manya tilted her pelvis up to make it easier and his cock – oh gods so _frakking_ good – pushed into her.

"Oh…" Manya whimpered and bliss saturated her body, radiating throughout her and she hooked a leg around his and just enjoyed the feeling of him frakking her. Romo's head was bent so his face was nestled in the curve of her throat, nose tickling her ear and lips brushing unsteadily against the nape of her neck. It was slow now, slow and his rhythm was off he was so drunk, but it was still satisfying, still pleasurable. Warmth suffused Manya, warmth and tenderness for him as she shut her eyes and her fingers curled gently against his scalp, legs twined around his hips, her body jolting with each thrust. It was…

"Oh gods..." Romo murmured the words with a sense of slurred awe,

"Oh gods." He lifted a hand and his thumb blindly traced the curve of Manya's lips, his lips whispering warm on her throat as he spoke,

"Oh gods, Faye…"

Manya froze and the warmth in her chest turned to ice. Oh no. Oh _no_. Pleasure turned to tears and she shoved at Romo abruptly, pushed at him until he finally noticed and stopped moving, pushing himself up so he could look down at her face blankly. Still inside her, and Manya felt queasy.

"What…? What's wrong?"

Manya slapped at Romo's shoulder, _hard_, and he scrambled back off the bed with a yelp and glared at her with drunken befuddlement. The godsdamned man was too frakked to realise what he'd said. Either that or he hadn't realised that Manya wasn't Faye yet. Manya didn't care which it was right now.

"I am not your wife you _asshole_." Manya grabbed the first thing she saw – a crumpled old shirt lying next to her on the bed – and threw it at him. She scrambled up and yanked her skirt down, searching the floor for her underwear.

"I – I said…Oh _bloody_ – Frak! Manya..." She looked up at Romo as he realised his slip, running his hands through his short hair, eyebrows bunched together as he cursed himself.

"I didn't…I'm drunk. I wasn't…"

Manya swore quietly to herself as she found her underwear and pulled them on, feeling sudden shame as she realised how stupid _she_ had been.

"You are right. You were drunk, and I should never have taken advantage of you like that. It was incredibly inappropriate, and I shouldn't be surprised that you were thinking of…" She couldn't say it.

"Take advantage?" Romo was indignant and incredulous and Manya jerked out a nod,

"Yes. That's what you call it when you sleep with someone who just told you that you were not an item, who is drunk, and grieving, and most certainly not thinking straight."

"You're bloody pissed at me," Romo said wonderingly and Manya blushed hot and her stomach roiled.

"I'm…It doesn't matter how I feel. I should just leave."

"You're seriously… I understand it can't have been pleasant to hear that slip out, Manya. But she was my wife, and I have been thinking about her. And I'm drunk, and it just kind of happened… She meant a lot to me, Manya."

"Oh, so _now_ you want to talk about her? Now? You want to think about your wife when we are having sex, and talk about her afterward…?" Manya couldn't stop her stupid tears or her stupid rush of emotion and she scrubbed at her eyes angrily,

"You couldn't just talk to me before, like I asked? You couldn't –" She broke off and swore aloud, Romo staring at her with wounded eyes, and she could see him closing himself off again; mouth tightening and eyes going cold as he zipped and buttoned his pants. His brief show of genuine emotion was shut down.

"I'm glad I didn't speak to you when you tried to convince me to. Obviously you aren't capable of being professional about it." His chilly words hurt all the more because they were true, and Manya wished she had never tried to push Romo to open up.

"You're jealous of my feelings for my dead wife. I find that extremely distasteful and bloody _stupid _to boot."

"I –" Manya tried to protest, to defend herself, but she couldn't think of anything to say. She wanted to say, 'it wasn't like that' but it was, and she should have known better. Yes, it had stung to hear Romo call her by his dead wife's name, but given the emotional state he was in right now it was not unusual.

"This is why I can't be romantically involved with you, Manya."

It hurt when he said it, all monotone and blank, and _gods_ she could have strangled him. It was like the whole frakking messy last ten or so minutes hadn't happened – they were right back to Romo pushing Manya away.

"I think it's best for everyone if you stop coming around." Romo wandered over to the bedside table as if drawn by a magnet, and picked up the jug. Cradled it in his hands like it was a precious baby and took a long drink. Manya stared at him helplessly. After the way she had just frakked things up, there was no chance she could get through to him. Not today, anyway. All she could do was hope that she _might_ be able to sort things out once he had completely sobered up.

"You have feelings for me." Manya couldn't seem to keep her mouth shut,

"You said before – you're saying now – that we aren't romantic, that we can't be involved, but what was _that_?"

"It was sex, Manya. It was a drunken frak that neither of us should have indulged in." His eyes were flat as he stared at her, and godsdamnit he kept being _right_, but he was _wrong_ at the same time, and Manya couldn't figure out how to fix things. She had ruined things, and she stared at him silently, brain searching for a solution to the situation and coming up blank.

"Please, just go, Manya." Romo's lips twitched into the rictus of a smile,

"I have drinking to do."

# # #

"Lee! Hey, Lee!"

The shout carried on the breeze and Lee stopped and looked around, axe hanging in his hand. He was on fuel today, which meant a day of chopping large bits of wood into smaller bits of wood. Each household could have done it for themselves, of course, but he like to get his community to work together as much as possible, to foster bonds between them. When people hunted bigger game, the spoils were divided amongst everyone – and the produce from gardens and gathering was shared with anyone who might have a need for it. They were just one big happy commune – mostly, anyway.

"Kit," he greeted the man who was hurrying toward him with a smile. The young man was coming up on twenty, tall and still with the lankiness of youth, a tight nervous expression on his usually cheerful face.

"I'm glad I found you. I've been looking all over for you. Elissa said you were on firewood today."

"I am, I just got held up at home."

Kit blushed at the implication and ducked his eyes; scuffed over-large feet on the ground, and Lee smirked to himself. The kid had his eye on a local girl, but as yet he'd been too shy to ask her out – unlike most of the teenage boys Lee knew. These days, with partners in short supply and life tough, people weren't picky about who they paired off with, and tended to settle down young. But not Kit. No, he was still innocent enough to blush at the mere hint of sex. Lee took pity on the young man,

"So, why were you looking for me?"

"Oh. Yeah, um… I was dropping some meat off at Cameron's last night, and I overheard him talking to Hermes when I got there." Kit paused and bit his lip, eyes still on his feet, nervous as hell.

"And…?" Lee encouraged.

"They were talking about Paulla." Kit met Lee's eyes at last and shrugged,

"I didn't hear much about that whole _thing_, but I know that you had to talk her out of trying anything like the assassination again, and…"

Lee's heart rate picked up and part of his mind wondered if Paulla had told anyone what Lee had done to her, and a sick feeling settled in his stomach. He hid any unease and nodded,

"Yeah, that's right. I don't want any more violence, as you know, and she wasn't eager to play nice with the people in Landfall." Lee shook his head and refocused, fixed his eyes sharply on Kit,

"What did you overhear?"

"Well…it might be nothing but I thought I should tell you just in case…" The boy was taking _forever _to get to the point.

"What, Kit?" He was sharper than he should have been, maybe, and Kit flinched a little, eyes dropping back to his shoes.

"Cam was asking if the meeting was still on at Paulla and Jeanne's tonight – as in tonight, not last night. And Hermes said it was, and it was about time Paulla did something. And then Cam said that he hoped she wasn't just going to talk shit, and actually had a plan. And then _Hermes_ said, that he bet it would be a plan – a good plan. That Paulla had said she wasn't scared of Lee – sorry, Lee – frakking Adama anymore, and she wasn't going to kiss his ass any longer."

Lee stared at Kit, waiting for more, but none came.

"That was everything?"

"Um, yeah."

"Thanks." Lee clapped Kit on the shoulder and the boy smiled weakly, still nervous.

"I mean it, Kit. Thanks. This is…this is very useful information. Now I have a chance to talk Paulla out of whatever stupid plan she's cooking up." Lee tried to reassure the boy that he'd done the right thing,

"If anyone commits any sort of violence towards the people in Landfall…we'll all pay for it. In blood, most likely. The Council and the President won't put up with violence. And with us having secured a place on the Council now and getting a chance to use politics to achieve our goals – violence is the worst possible thing that could happen."

Kit shrugged,

"That sounds good and all, but how likely is it that a place on the Council will make any difference?"

"To be honest, not that likely, Kit. Not short-term, at least, but long-term – yeah, I think it'll make a difference. It's more likely to succeed than striking out at Landfall anyway."

That seemed to be something Kit could agree with, his nod of agreement firm,

"Enough people have died. Humans _and_ Cylons. I sure as hell don't want to see anyone else die, no matter how much I believe in our goals."

"Exactly." Lee clapped Kit on the shoulder again,

"I better go find Paulla, then. Have a chat with her. Could you let Daveth know I won't be able to help out today?"

"Sure thing. Hey, I'm not busy – I could take over for you."

"You're sure?"

"Totally," Kit nodded and Lee handed him the axe with a smile and a last thanks, and the two spilt off – Kit heading towards the logging site, and Lee heading off toward the other side of the community, where the cabin Paulla shared with Jeanne was situated.

Godsdamnit. Lee seethed quietly to himself as he walked, slowly, so as to give himself some time to think. His thoughts were unpleasant. Lee knew Paulla wouldn't listen to polite reason, not her. She was too obsessive; she had been that way back as one of Gaius Baltar's cult members, Lee had heard. Professed belief in the cause, but really she was just out for power – using the cause, whatever it might be, to gain herself power. No, she would never listen to reason. Besides, she definitely wouldn't want to hear a godsdamned word _Lee_ had to say.

And what options did that leave Lee with? Only the course he had taken last time. Violence, intimidation, threats – using fear for her safety to force Paulla back into line. Frak, he couldn't make it sound more unsavoury if he tried. He still felt horrible when he remembered hurting her, threatening her, and he dwelt on it often. Berating himself for using such methods, and then justifying what he had done – telling himself that he had no choice, that it had been for the greater good. But at did doing bad things for the greater good stop them from being bad? And was it ever ethical to do something wrong, for the sake of something that was right, and much more important? Could an unethical act ever be justifiable because of the reason it was committed?

Just a short time ago, Lee would have answered no. Now…now he wasn't so sure.

# # #

_Author's Note: _Poor Romo. He's not coping very well is he? Well, I figure the sort of trauma that losing your entire family would cause a person has to come up and be dealt with eventually. I get the feeling Romo has just been trying to ignore his feelings for a very long time, and now they're refusing to be ignored. I hope he's still himself though, and not completely, awfully out of character.

And Lee…oh Lee, stop trying to justify things to yourself! We'll see what he decides to do about his problem with Paulla _next _chapter.

Please leave a _review_, you all know how much I crave them :)

Oh, and _The Admiral_ who left a comment asking if Admiral Adama was coming back to Landfall…well, I'm pretty sure Adama doesn't _want_ to come back, so if he _did_ end up coming back, it would have to be for a pretty _big_ reason, and convincing him might not be that easy, and then, well…that's all I'm saying on the subject. *evil grin*


	3. Just One Touch - Part One

_Author's Note: _ A huge _thank you_ to my wonderful reviewers, and also to those who follow/favourite/read my series. _Trigger warnings_ in this chapter for _suicide_ and _violence_.

So having said that, let's get on with the sweet, sweet drama!

_Enjoy!_

# # #

_Just One Touch – Part One_

The sky was blue overhead and the toes of Starbuck's boots kicked up puffs of dirt and gravel as she scuffed them satisfyingly on the well-trodden path down to Landfall. Her hands were shoved deep in her pockets, eyes squinting ahead of her as she slouched along deep in thought, a cigar gripped firmly between her teeth. It was unlit, but it felt good to have it there anyway; the familiar old feel that reminded her of Galactica. Starbuck hummed under her breath and frowned, forehead crinkling up as she thought back to her conversation with Ellen Tigh. The Cylon woman had assured Starbuck that she wasn't a Cylon, not as far as Ellen knew anyway. She had told Starbuck that she would have liked to help, but she had no idea what Starbuck might be that had led her to resurrecting after apparently dying on the 13th Colony. Ellen had no reason to lie to Starbuck, and the ex-pilot believed the woman was telling her the truth. Ellen didn't know anything.

Which unfortunately meant, that Starbuck still didn't know anything. It had been a relief to hear Ellen say that Starbuck couldn't be a Cylon, but if she wasn't a Cylon, what was she? A chill ran down her spine as she remembered finding her crashed viper, her dead body. Her own body. Gods. How could she have seen herself, dead, if she wasn't a Cylon? What hell _was_ she? It played on her mind more and more these days, evoking an uneasy fear in her that had been what finally prompted her to swallow her pride and talk openly to Ellen Tigh. Starbuck couldn't live this way anymore.

Starbuck lit the cigar with trembling fingers and puffed on it, the threads of nicotine entering her system soothing her frayed nerves. She needed to know what she was. How could somebody live their life without knowing what they were? Leoben – Leon…they had called her an angel. But that was bullshit. It had to be. There wasn't any such thing as angels, and even if there were, there was no way in hell she was one. But there was something about her…she wasn't normal, wasn't like everyone else. No one else resurrected when they died. No one else drew pictures since childhood that smacked of prophecy; no one else had known a song that had been the answer to so much. In the end though, Starbuck had more questions than answers.

The trail began to flatten out as the scraggly trees that decorated the base of the mountains gave way to the plains, Landfall sprawling out just below her. A motley collection of buildings; mostly ramshackle homes – only the hospital, school, LanSec and the large Council building had the look of sturdy, permanent structures. Starbuck paused, clouds of smoke drifting up around her head as she puffed contemplatively on her cigar. A possibility had pushed its way to the forefront of her mind. An option she had been mulling over, but really didn't want to take.

The only person who seemed to know something – even if it mostly sounded insane – was Leon. The other Twos Starbuck had met had told her about visions and prophecies, but it was _Leon_ who she had met out on the plains just recently, _Leon_ who was still obsessed with her unlike the other Twos, and so it was him she thought of. Right now he was locked up in the detention wing of the LanSec building, awaiting trial for grievous bodily harm and attempted murder thanks to his assault on her out on the plains. Starbuck could go and see Hoshi, drag him away from work for a drink, or…

The gentle slope Starbuck was standing on meant she could see the tops of Landfall's buildings easily, and her eyes flicked from LanSec to the Council building where Hoshi was working these days. LanSec lay to her left, the Council building beckoning right in front of her in the near dead centre of Landfall. Starbuck gnawed on her cigar, heaved a sigh, and went left.

The LanSec building was composed of a small central structure with wings jutting out at either side. The central structure opened into the lobby – a shitty little waiting room for Colonists who wanted to speak to an LPO for whatever reason. It also held a couple of sparsely furnished rooms for a variety of purposes – LPO interviews with complainants being one of those uses. And then right at the back was Tigh and Starbuck's tiny shared office – Tigh being head of LanSec and Starbuck his second meant that there was unfortunately paperwork that fell on their shoulders to do from time to time. It was a small and uninviting room, and they both spent as little time in it as possible.

The right wing was the operational side, and held the armoury, a toilet, lockers and a few bunks for the LPOs if needed, and finally the LPOs briefing room – which saw most of its use as a hangout for shooting the shit and playing Triad before or after shifts. Starbuck wanted the left wing – the lock up. She grinned at the LPO on duty in the detention wing

"Hotshot, hey. How's it going?"

Hotshot looked up from a game of One Man Stand and nodded amiably at Starbuck,

"Good. Boring as shit, but that's the idea right? Lock 'em up so they can't cause trouble."

Starbuck grinned,

"Yeah, exciting isn't a good thing in the prison business. You miss being out in the black with raiders trying to crawl up your ass?"

"Frak yeah. Who doesn't, huh?" Hotshot turned a card over and swore, swiped a destructive hand over the pentagonal pattern of face up cards, and swept them into a heap. She glanced up at Starbuck,

"So, what brings you by? Got a convict you want some conjugal time with?" Hotshot's tongue poked out the corner of her mouth obscenely and she smirked as she stacked the cards neatly together and began to shuffle. Starbuck huffed a derisive laugh and readjusted her cigar in her mouth,

"Nah, they've got you for that – don't they, Hotshot?" she shot back with a smirk that matched the other LPO's and Hotshot gave a snort.

"Huh, they wish. My only options are Jimmy, Daren, or the Two. And there ain't no way in hell I'm going near any of _them_."

Jimmy had raped and killed three teenage girls before he'd gotten caught and was up for execution in a few days, Lyle was the settlement's resident drunk who had a tendency to get vicious when he got too deep in the bottle, and the Two, well… Starbuck couldn't blame Hotshot for not wanting to go near _him_ either.

"Thought we had a woman in at the moment?"

"We do. June Sloe. Up and stabbed her boyfriend one night, just right outta the blue. Five frakking times with a kitchen knife. He lived, lucky for her, but she's gonna be in here for a good long while."

Starbuck raised a questioning eyebrow and Hotshot rolled her eyes,

"She doesn't count for mentioning – you know damn well I don't swing that way."

There was a pause as Hotshot laid out the five cards that formed the base of her game and Starbuck stood silently puffing on her cigar; she was in no rush to see Leon, lingering to delay the moment as long as possible.

"So. Who're you here to see?" Hotshot's forehead creased as she thought for a moment, smiling as she put down three cards in quick succession,

"The Two, right?" She looked up from the card game and stabbed a finger at Starbuck,

"_That's_ right. It was _you_ he jumped out on the plains."

"Yeah."

"You want ten minutes alone with him, huh?" Hotshot said understandingly, giving Starbuck a knowing look. Starbuck shrugged, shook her head.

"I just want to talk to him."

"_Sure_ ya do. Here." Hotshot reached under the desk and tossed Starbuck a ring of keys that jangled as she caught them, the metal cool in her hand.

"Cell seven, down the end. He was in cell one when I came on shift at dawn this morning, but I got sick of his godsdamned rambling and swapped him down at breakfast. Could hear him ranting even through the frakking door. This job is shitty enough without some nutjob trying to drive me godsdamned mad too."

"Thanks, Hotshot."

"Welcome," the woman replied distractedly, attention already back on her game of One Man Stand, the pentagonal layout of cards slowly growing outwards like the petals of a flower; this game apparently going better than the last. Starbuck sighed, unable to delay any longer, and sloped down the hallway to cell seven.

"Leon, it's Kara Thrace. I'm coming in, so sit on your bunk and place your hands behind your head," she yelled casually through the door – the standard procedure when entering a cell. The Two didn't answer, and Starbuck frowned. She went up on the balls of her feet and tried to look through the window but it was smeared, small and too high up for her to see anything much except the cell's opposite wall. She repeated herself, louder, and still got no answer. She swore and fumbled with the keys, unlocking the door, body tense and ready for action. She pushed the door open, and it moved about an inch before coming up against something. Frak. Something was jamming it. Starbuck assumed it was Leon – holding it shut or having pushed something under it to jam it – and her anger fizzed up.

"Step back from the _frakking_ door motherfrakker, or I'll _beat_ you down, I swear to the gods," Starbuck called through the crack. Maybe it had been a mistake, coming here. She was nervous and edgy, and this was only making her feel worse.

"Leoben! Damnit, _Leon_ – if you're blocking the door you'll frakking live to regret it! Frakking piece of shit bastard," the last part said under her breath as she braced her stance and shoved at the door with her foot, one hand poised on her sidearm. If Leon was going to try anything then Starbuck had to be on guard. She could imagine how he'd want it to go down – her shoving the door open, stumbling in off-balance and giving him the chance to grab her.

"You all right, Starbuck?" Hotshot stepped lightly down the hall, swinging a stun stick from her hand. Starbuck jerked her head at the door.

"Frakker thinks it's funny to try and lock me out of his hole. You got my six?"

"Yes, _sir_," Hotshot replied automatically and Starbuck smiled to herself, shoved at the door with her shoulder – secure in knowing Hotshot would back her up if Leon tried anything – and the door began to move. Now Starbuck could put some real effort into it and not worry about Leon grabbing her thanks to Hotshot's back up, the door pushed open almost easily, and then a wall of stink assaulted the two women.

"Oh my _gods_."

Starbuck saw Hotshot turn away and gag in her peripheral vision, and she wanted to do the same too. Instead Starbuck pulled her weapon and edged around the door, the scent of ripe shit assailing her nose.

"Frak. _Frak_!" Starbuck lowered her pistol and shoved it back into its holster, running her hand through her hair as she stared at the slumped shape on the floor.

"Frak!" She stamped her boot on the concrete and half turned away from the gruesome sight, eyebrows scrunching together and lips thinning with mounting anger and frustration and a just little bit of pity.

"What's going on?" Hotshot came into the cell with her fingers pinching her nostrils shut and recoiled slightly when she saw what Starbuck had seen.

"He frakking hanged himself," Hotshot observed with almost comical surprise and Starbuck shot her a dark glare,

"No shit."

Hotshot shut up, and the two LPOs stared silently at the slumped body for a moment, absorbing the scene before them. The smell was Leon, obviously. He must have shit himself when he'd died – Starbuck knew what happened at the moment of death. The muscles went slack, and if there was anything there to be released then it came leaking on out. Now she had gotten more used to the stench, Starbuck could identify the smell of urine too, and her nose wrinkled.

His face was the worst though. His head tilted to one side and upwards toward Starbuck. She could get a real good look. And he looked just like the stereotypical hanging suicide – face bloated and puce, patches of bloody red sprinkled over his cheeks and forehead, tongue protruding and all dried up – a lump of dehydrated meat sandwiched between his lips. His eyes were – mercifully – shut, and as the sudden shocking horror of the moment began to retreat, Starbuck could take in the more clinical details.

The rope he'd used to hang himself was made out of braided sheets from his bed. His breakfast sat untouched on the cell floor. He was sitting and the rope looped up around the door handle – Starbuck didn't know you could hang yourself like that instead of from the ceiling or something else high, but she supposed it made sense. Obviously it _was_ possible. To one side of Leon's corpse lay more rope – at first Starbuck thought it was just extra that he hadn't needed, but then she took a closer look and realised it was laid out in a deliberate shape. A misshapen heart. Oh gods. Starbuck's skin crawled and she felt the sudden need to wash herself all over – scrub herself clean. She _knew_ who that heart was meant for, and it sure as shit wasn't Hotshot. It was a last message for _her_.

"Oh…gods." Starbuck turned and stumbled out of the cell, shoving Hotshot aside roughly and making it to the opposite wall in the corridor before she ejected her stomach contents all over the floor. Stomach emptied and throat and nose stinging from the bile, Starbuck straightened up and gave a sorrowful look to her cigar – lying forlornly in a puddle of vomit. It was done for. No coming back from _that_. She swished her mouth with her meagre saliva and spat into the vomit, trying to get rid of the taste. It didn't really work.

"You okay, Starbuck?" Hotshot's voice came from right behind her and Starbuck was too rattled to trust her voice would be steady, so just nodded. Swallowed hard, nodded again.

"Yeah. I'm fine. Just…" she managed after a moment and Hotshot read her own thoughts into Starbuck's words.

"Yeah. Smells disgusting, right? I nearly lost my lunch myself. Frakking _disgusting_."

"Yeah," Starbuck agreed quietly, inwardly seething. She was blinded by panic and shock, not thinking straight. All she could think was that her best chance – however slim it might have been – for learning something, _anything_, about what she might be, was gone. The stupid, frakking _bastard_, killing himself like that – and gods, leaving a sick little offering for her, like some kind of suicide note. She shook herself and grimaced at Hotshot, attempting a smile.

"Sorry 'bout the mess."

"No problem. I'll get someone else to clean it up." Hotshot crossed her arms and sighed,

"Well, guess I better go get a doctor or something?"

Starbuck nodded,

"Grab someone from the briefing room, and send them to notify Tigh of the incident and fetch a few orderlies from the hospital. You come straight back here and keep an eye on the scene. When the orderlies get here, pack his body off with them for an autopsy or whatever the doctors want to do. It's a suicide, not a murder. It's not our problem," Starbuck outlined quickly, wincing as she added,

"Except for all the paperwork it'll create. Godsdamnit, why'd he have to kill himself in our cells? Hah, Tigh is going to be _pissed_." Starbuck might be distracted but she still outranked Hotshot, and the ex-pilot nodded sharply in response to Starbuck's orders. Grinned at the thought of Tigh's reaction. And then looked at Starbuck curiously,

"What are _you_ going to do?"

"Going to have a drink," Starbuck muttered in reply, already stalking off down the corridor. Frak this shit. Let Hotshot and the others deal with it. There was no crime here, no urgency seeing as Leon was not going to get any deader – no matters of any real importance. Except for how Starbuck was probably _never_ going to figure out what the hell she was now. It frightened her more than she wanted to admit to herself. It terrified the living frak out of her. Not to know. Never to know. _Godsdamnit_, she needed a drink.

# # #

The cabin Paulla, Jeanne and her son shared was out near the edge of the ragged conglomeration of buildings that made up Lee's little community. The communal hall, a trader's shop, the building they stored the firewood and community equipment in, a community garden, and around fifteen cabins each with their own separate garden. Lee nodded and smiled at the people tending the community garden as he strolled past, appearing perfectly at ease and relaxed to the casual observer. Inwardly though, his mind was racing. Going over scenarios in his head – all the different ways this could go down, rehearsing what to say to Paulla, trying to plan what he would say in response to specific objections and protests she would have. Not that he thought reason would work. But Lee had to try.

The cabin was small and rough like most of the homes, with a ragged patch of garden along the right wall. Lee took a deep breath and knocked on the door. He heard voices inside and waited patiently, heart pounding and skin dampening with nervous sweat. Jeanne opened the door with a smile, a toddler on her hip. The smile wavered and faded when she saw who it was.

"Lee." She bit her lip and shifted the child on her hip, and past her Lee could see a gaggle of children under five playing on the floor – Jeanne was the official childminder in the community. She didn't invite him in. Lee nodded,

"Jeanne. I was hoping to speak to Paulla. Is she in?"

Jeanne shook her head immediately, teeth still clamped onto her bottom lip, and a strand of lank dark hair fell over her face. The toddler immediately grabbed at it with a chubby little hand and Jeanne scolded him – or her? – gently and detached the fat, dimpled fist from her hair.

"She's out," was all she said and Lee waited. There was a long silence and a crash sounded from inside the cabin and Jeanne jumped and turned around with wide eyes.

"Sophie, get down from there!" she ordered and looked back at Lee, torn between him and the situation inside. Lee shrugged,

"I just want to know where Paulla is."

Jeanne shifted on her feet and frustration crinkled her face. A thump sounded and she flashed another worried look inside,

"Tera! Stop that!" She glanced at Lee but didn't meet his eyes, staring instead at his chest,

"I have to go," she apologised and moved back, letting the door start to swing shut. Lee stuck his foot out and jammed the door open, hand darting out and grabbing Jeanne's wrist, stopping her in her tracks. She looked down at his hand and shrank a little, looking at him with frightened eyes. Something panged inside Lee as he realised what that look meant. Paulla had told Jeanne what Lee had done to her that day. He had expected it, but somehow that expression of sudden uncertain fear made him feel sick and guilty. He told himself that he'd had no choice, and that was the truth.

"Just tell me where she is, Jeanne. I only want to talk to her."

Jeanne glared at Lee and tried to wrench her arm away but Lee merely clamped his fingers tighter,

"Please, Jeanne," he said but he wasn't pleading, he was warning and they both knew it. Of course there was no way in hell that Lee would ever lay a hand on mousy, earnest Jeanne, who wouldn't hurt a fly – but she didn't know that. She gulped and broke,

"She's down at the stream. Washing clothes. Please…"

Another noise came from inside and Lee released Jeanne's wrist, seeing the blood flood back into the white finger marks he'd left; the marks turning pinker than the rest of her skin. Frak.

"Thank you, Jeanne." He fumbled for words, trying to explain himself. Lee didn't want her to think he was a monster, or a bad person. He just didn't have any choices, right now. Backed into a corner.

"We can't afford violence, you know. Not now. Not when I've just got a place on the Council. What Paulla's doing, it's not going to help…"

Jeanne hesitated and Lee could see her indecision; stuck between wanting to go inside and wanting to speak to Lee.

"_Florien_, you stop that _now_!" she snapped and exhaled sharply, stepping back into the cabin but holding the door open with one hand, toddler squirming on her hip. Jeanne gnawed on her lip again, took a deep breath, and said,

"I don't want violence either, Lee Adama. But you haven't exactly been practicing what you've been preaching, have you?" She raised an eyebrow at him and Lee shrank as her words struck to the core. He couldn't think of anything to say in reply, and so he just stood there gaping stupidly at the door as Jeanne swung it shut in his face.

She was right. Lee dwelled on Jeanne's words as he traipsed around the garden, picking his way along the trodden down trail through the forest towards the nearest melt-water stream that cut past the settlement. He wasn't exactly playing by his own rules. But it was different. What Lee had done was intimidate – and admittedly get a bit rough with – Paulla, but _only_ in order to stop her from committing a serious crime that could cause a hell of a lot of trouble. He shook his head. No. That sounded right, sounded good, but that was just an excuse. A justification. No, if Lee was going to bend the rules and do something unethical at the very least, then he couldn't lie to himself about it. He had to be honest, and just hope that his intent, and the reason he had to do what he did, lessened the wrongness of his actions. It probably didn't. But at this point, Lee didn't see that he had any other choice. He straightened and picked up the pace, striding along as though trying to leave his doubts and concerns behind in his wake. Lee would do what had to be done, and think about the consequences later. Yes, he _would_ think about it – in the night, like he did most nights these days, awake in the dark while Kara slept. The time when all his fears and self-doubt plagued his mind and stole sleep away from him. Lee sighed.

Paulla was bending over in the shallow waters of the stream gripping an item of clothing and scrubbing the fabric together to clean it, humming softly to herself. Lee stepped out of the forest with a rustling of leaves and crackling of twigs underfoot, and Paulla stood and spun at the noise, still clutching the dripping wet shirt. Her eyes narrowed and she took a step back on the uneven streambed and almost fell over.

"Lee." Her voice was tight and her cold-reddened hands were tight on the shirt she held. Lee inclined his head and walked down the muddy bank to the stream's edge.

"Paulla."

"What do _you_ want?"

Lee shrugged, tipped his head and examined Paulla, his silence making her feel uneasier. She swallowed and lifted her chin, splashed out of the stream and tossed the wet shirt on a rock with a pile of other sopping washing, stopping a foot away from Lee and staring him down with arms crossed defensively over her chest.

"I haven't done anything wrong, Lee. You've got no excuse to try and get your rocks off by hurting me."

Lee flinched a little and his mouth tightened, but he refused to take the bait.

"That's not what I hear, Paulla." He smiled at her, speaking mildly, a hard edge barely showing in his tone.

"Then you heard wrong," she shot back and glared at Lee; the only give-away of her fear were her trembling hands when she pushed her hair back off her face, and the way she couldn't hold his gaze for more than a second or two.

"No. No I didn't. I _know_ you, Paulla. I know what you're like. And if someone tells me that you're stirring up trouble again, I believe their word over yours. Every godsdamned time."

"Fuck you, Lee." Hate seared in her eyes and Lee refused to let her emotion make him feel guilty for what he had done. He existed in the moment, focused on the goal – not the ethical ramifications of the methods he would use to reach that goal. He breathed in and then out, slow and calm.

"You need to stop, Paulla. What do you think you're going to achieve by trying to strike out against Landfall against my orders?"

"I am not your soldier, you arrogant bastard. Nor am I your slave! I can do whatever the hell I like!" Paulla jabbed at Lee's chest, caught up in her anger, and Lee grabbed her arm. She tried to yank away but he held her tight. She yanked harder but Lee just held on harder, fingers clamped around the soft skin and hard slender bones of her forearm.

"Let me go, you asshole! You're nothing more than a bully, Lee Adama. Everyone thinks you're this noble frakking leader, but you're not, are you? I've seen _exactly_ what you are."

Her words stung him, but Lee refused to believe them. He couldn't afford to listen to her; all lies and manipulation, power plays attempting to set him off-balance and make him doubt himself, to give her the power back in the situation.

"So you admit that you're up to something, then?" He picked on her previous words and Paulla showed a flicker of something before she made her face blank and unreadable but for her anger. Lee smirked.

"You're planning something. Some sort of strike at Landfall. I know it, and I'm afraid I can't allow you to do that, Paulla."

"So what, you're going to choke me again, you frakking _bastard_?"

"Well, I was hoping to reason with you, but if you have your heart set on being hurt, then I suppose I could oblige."

"Frak you!" Paulla tried to pull free of Lee's grip again and he released her abruptly, her momentum making her stumble back and tumble onto her ass in the muddy soil. She yelped as she hit the ground and tears sprang to her eyes that she blinked away fiercely. Lee meandered up to her, using her position on the ground to loom over her.

"Violence isn't going to help our cause, Paulla. It's only going to hurt it."

"_Our cause_ is just going to fade and die unless we stay strong. You want to _compromise_ and take whatever scraps the Council is willing to give you. But that's not our cause! It's not, 'get rid of some tech maybe, please thanks', it's get rid of _all _of it. We can't work with the Council unless they share our beliefs."

She had a point, to a certain extent. But Lee was more optimistic than her.

"This is just a beginning, Paulla. Insinuate myself onto the Council. Be a useful force. Show the Council how well our community is doing – how much trade we can do, how well we live and _thrive_ without technology. And then, eventually, over time…we may be able to bring them around to our point of view."

"What? Fifty years down the line?" Paulla laughed shortly and sneered up at Lee, still sprawled on the ground and having to tilt her head right back to meet his eyes. Her lips curled contemptuously.

"Yes, actually," Lee responded, unruffled,

"That is a relatively realistic timeline. It may be too sedate for your liking, but it is, I believe, more likely to work than your methods," And here Lee levelled a dry expression at Paulla, eyebrow raised and arms folded,

"_And_, my plan also involves significantly less terrorism."

"That's not a plan, it's just capitulation while fooling yourself that you're being clever and biding your time. It'll never work."

"It's the only acceptable option."

"I don't think so." A sneer marred the objective attractiveness of Paulla's features, and Lee sighed. The calm he had summoned and barely held onto, the reason he had attempted – it wasn't going to work on Paulla. But that had been what he'd expected.

"Paulla, I cannot have a rogue group creating trouble that affects the entire cause. I can't."

"Well then next time you go to grovel before your precious Council, just tell them that I'm not affiliated with you anymore."

"They won't care. They'll still believe that having been once under my leadership, it was my responsibility to stop you from splintering off. No, the solution is clear – you and your…_people_ have to stop plotting attacks."

Paulla was silent for a long moment and Lee smiled down at her coldly.

"Need a hand?"

"_No_," she half-snarled and stayed on the ground.

"Don't be stupid." Lee rolled his eyes and pulled her to her feet by one arm anyway, and Paulla bristled at him and jerked her arm away, standing a few steps away from him, still glaring murderously.

"This is the last warning I'm going to give you Paulla – whatever you're planning can't happen. You need to stop, I'm I will have to make sure you stop." His voice was even and low, words resonating with hard sincerity and Paulla stared stubbornly back at him, unmoved. Lee swore internally.

"I don't want to… Please, Paulla. Just _stop_."

"You don't want to _what_? Hurt me again?" She threw the words at him with her fists clenched and her face a mask of anger. Lee cringed inwardly although eh didn't show it one his face, and he merely nodded.

"If that's what it takes. This movement – breaking the cycle – is bigger and more important than both of us. It's about the future, a hundred thousand years down the line. It's about saving _humanity_. And with your approach, the movement would simply be decimated and the remnants dismantled. Because the Council isn't going to respond positively to terrorism – they're just going to take harder measures and forget about trying to preserve our lives."

Lee rubbed a hand over his eyes and sighed heavily. He made perfect sense, and he _knew _his approach was the right one. Knew it intellectually, and emotionally.

"If I have to… Well, you're a single person Paulla, and if I have to do something unsavoury to stop you from continuing down your path, then I will." Lee gritted his teeth and continued, making himself hard and cold, like a stone. He put himself into the mindset he had used while flying – turning his weaker, softer emotions _off_ and leaving only coldness and anger, frustration and determination.

"You _will_ stop," he told Paulla and she shook her head, smiling smugly with false bravado.

"No, no I won't."

Lee took a heavy step forward, limbs taking on that familiar, awful leaden feeling, and Paulla's hand shot out, twice. Lee wasn't expecting it and didn't dodge, and his cheek lit up like fire and he felt his lip well with blood from a split in it.

"_Frak_," Lee gasped out, hand automatically going to his stinging cheek, then tracing his lip and staring at the blood on his fingers with dull surprise. The woman had a good frakking arm on her.

"Frak you Lee! You don't scare me!" Paulla spat out. Lee groaned softly.

"Tell me you'll disband your little off-shoot group and cease planning any terrorist activities," he asked of her and she shook her head,

"No. Go frak yourself."

His hands grabbed her upper arms and he swore under his breath as he dragged her around, her feet stumbling and only his grip holding her upright. He backed her up the bank toward a tree, trying not to think while she kicked at him and struggled, spewing obscenities from her mouth. Sudden impact with the tree trunk shut her up, knocking the breath from her lungs. Lee hated himself.

"Tell me you'll stop!" he demanded and Paulla couldn't speak, still gasping for breath. But she managed to shake her head. What could he do? Lee's hands slipped from Paulla's arms to her throat and his fingers tightened just enough to keep her gasping for breath and thus unable to fight or scream. Her eyes were wide as she looked into his and saw the resolve there.

"I don't want to do this Paulla, but I need to believe that you aren't going to destroy everything I'm working so hard to create," he told her intently, face inches from hers, and she spat at him. The gobbet hit his cheekbone and little droplets of saliva sprayed into his left eye and he swore, lip splitting further and trickling blood down his chin. And then while he was distracted a blinding pain erupted in his crotch and he groaned and half doubled over, making his fingers tighten around her throat and not let go as his lower abdomen radiated pain and his crushed testicles sent agony flashing along his nerves.

Lee told himself later that it had been instinct - he didn't even think about it, he just _hit_ her.

But then maybe he did think about it, because he _did_ remember to sink a closed fist into her stomach rather than risk marking her face.

# # #

_Author's Note:_ Okay, firstly, _eeep_, what did you all think of Lee's scene? Was all that still in character for Lee? *nervous* Although, if I do say so myself, I love that last line :D And there's more of that scene to come, next update, so I hope you all liked it :p

Also, I can't actually remember Hotshot at all and um, didn't look her character up on the Battlestar Wiki or anything (_bad_ fanfic author, _bad_) so… I hope her conversation with Starbuck worked okay.

Anyway, I was originally unsure about whether it was in character for Lee to go off at Paulla like that, but in this story – Paulla's been causing trouble in minor ways etc since they landed on Earth, and now she's threatening peaceful bridge-building between Landfall and Lee's community, and the way he sees it, he doesn't have much choice. He's stressed, questioning himself, feels backed into a corner… So I think it's believable, but that's just me of course.

Lee thinks the trouble Paulla could create is enough of a risk (to the people of Landfall, and to the security of the community he's trying to nurture and protect) that nearly any means of stopping her is justified. But he also knows that ethically, he's making a _highly_ dubious choice. What do you all think of Lee's actions? Understandable? Totally wrong? In character?

Please _review_!

Coming up in _Part Two_, we get a perspective flip *evil laugh*


	4. Just One Touch - Part Two

_Author's Note: _Thank you my wonderful reviewers! I love reading your reviews – every time my email goes 'ping' with a review I get all excited and bouncy; I'm like a small child at Christmas…honestly it's just kind of sad :D

This chapter continues directly on from the last scene of the last chapter, except with one major difference…

_Enjoy!_

# # #

Just One Touch – Part Two

What little breath she had been dragging in through her burning throat whooshed out her with a dull violent pain as Lee's fist hit her stomach, and her knees went weak. Tears sprang from Paulla's eyes, and working on instinctive animal panic her fingers scrabbled at the fingers clamped around her throat, fighting desperately for air. Her feet lashed out frantically but ineffectively, her nails found purchase on skin and dragged and she heard as if from a great distance a voice swearing and yelping in pain, her hand knocked away roughly. But the chokehold on her throat lessened and Paulla almost wept with relief, sucking in huge breaths of blessed oxygen.

"_Bitch_." She heard Lee swear under his breath, and looked up with blurred vision to see Lee touching the two shallow gouges her nails had left on his cheek. His eyes landed on her and she tried to shrink back against the tree – gods he looked cold; cold and determined and not at all like the idealistic young man he normally appeared to be.

"I hate you," Paulla told him almost childishly and his head snapped back like she'd slapped him again, his emotions mixed on his face into a pained mess that she couldn't read. It hurt to speak and her voice sounded strangled and rasping, and she kicked at him again – but this time he expected it and twisted his leg across to block the blow, her knee jabbing uselessly into his thigh. Lee shook her by the throat, like a helpless and mistreated puppy and Paulla thrashed, panic seeping over her quickly again, but before she could lose her senses completely he pushed her back against the tree and fixed his eyes to hers.

"You will stop the plotting, and the attacks, and the plans of violence, the terrorism. Call it what you will, but all actions that could result in violence of any kind will _stop_. Do you hear me? Do you understand how _important_ this is?" There was urgent pleading in his voice and Paulla managed a defiant if trembling smirk, saying again, "I _hate_ you, you sick _bastard_."

Paulla enjoyed the hurt and shame that flared briefly on his face. She wriggled in Lee's grip – not trying to hurt him, afraid he might hit her again, but trying to get loose of his hold on her throat, pushing at his chest and prying at his implacable fingers. Fighting him and knowing there was no way she _could_ get free, but doing it anyway because…well, just _because_. She _had_ to fight.

"This isn't a joke, Paulla. Our species survival could very well depend on your actions _now_, and I _cannot_ risk you ruining everything," Lee hissed as Paulla stamped on his foot and abruptly pressed his body close against hers to still her thrashing; one hand still curled around her throat just enough to make breathing difficult, the other gripping a handful of her shirt at her waist.

"Go to hell." She tipped her face up to his, hyper-aware of how he felt moulded against her. Warm and lean and hard, his breath hot on her face and smelling of pine needles. His fingers digging into the flesh of her throat, making every breath a struggle and she knew bruises would bloom where he'd held her. Impotent fury mingled with a sudden spark of _something_ that she had tried so hard to beat into nothing, but Lee Adama… Gods… A certain sick pleasure started tingling as arousal gripped, and she squeezed her thighs together tightly to try to erase the feeling.

She hated him. She really, truly despised him.

"I could kill you and no one would ever know. They might suspect, sure – but no one cares enough about you to drag me up on charges. Your body would rot somewhere and no one would bother to look for it."

That hit home because Paulla knew it was true, and she crumpled a little inside, her traitorous body still humiliatingly throbbing for him. His hand around her throat, his sharp eyes boring into her, the contempt on his face, his muscled abdomen hard against her torso… A shuddering breath escaped her lips and he misread it for fear. He smiled, a triumphant, cruel expression on his lips. In this moment he looked very little like the Lee Adama who had set up this community just over nine months ago. Paulla's eyes searched his face. She wished more than anything that she wasn't attracted to him, didn't want to…do things…things that made her…

Paulla shut her eyes, and when Lee asked her if she would stop stirring up violence she nodded weakly, imagining him throwing her to the ground and ripping her pants down, shoving into her roughly. Frakking her hard with that look of contempt on his face, calling her every debasing name he could think of while she sprawled in the mud. The flesh between her legs twitched at the vivid fantasy, arousal increasing the blood flow and making her clit throb and ache almost painfully, making her body crave to be filled by Lee, _hurt_ by Lee. She was suddenly so wet and slick, and her constricted breath grew even shallower, her mind swirling as she grew light-headed.

"You'll stop?"

"Yes," Paulla breathed, vertigo sweeping over her and making the world reel sickeningly as she opened her eyes and stared into Lee's. So blue. Gods she _disgusted_ herself. Her hand clasped over Lee's that gripped around her throat; not trying to pull his hand away, just resting her fingers over his.

"Can I believe you?" he asked, and Paulla tried to nod, couldn't.

"Yes," she whispered again. Lee paused and stared at her carefully, as though trying to look into her head and read her thoughts.

"You remember what I said. If anything else happens – _anything _– then I'm going to stop you. Permanently." Lee's eyes dropped and he added under his breath,

"Gods help me."

Then he looked back into Paulla's eyes and she stared back at him silently and unblinking. He looked so cold. Like all emotion had just been…shut off. Fear began to overwhelm the twisted arousal fluttering inside her, and Paulla was almost thankful. But then Lee's hand began to tighten and Paulla once more couldn't breath, and that horrible, animal panic began to seize her brain and shake it again, and her hands clawed and wrenched at his and her feet kicked out – unsuccessfully. Her vision started getting dark spots in it, and her hands fell away from his, a ringing starting in her ears.

Paulla stared into Lee's face with her darkening vision and saw no hope of mercy, no twinges of guilt or shame. Just steely resolve.

_Why? He said he believed me. He said…_

And then his hand released her and Paulla crumpled heavily to her knees, gasping in huge, agonising breaths, fingers digging into the mud as she fought to stay conscious, black spots dancing in front of her eyes. Her hair fell around her face as she stared dizzily down at the mud, her clenched fists half buried in the muck, her chest rising and falling and throat searing with each breath. She heard him speak her name and looked up, movements feeling too fast and clumsy. Lee was squatting on his heels, and his hand slipped beneath her chin and his fingers tilted it further up toward him and instinctive fear squirmed inside her. She couldn't breathe…couldn't… Her breath caught and her heart raced.

"All I needed to do was _not stop_ and you would be dead right now," he said, and Paulla blinked, trying to clear her muzzy head and foggy vision and make sense of his words.

"I won't have you endanger this community. And if you do _anything_ that risks it, next time I _won't_ stop." There was pain printed on Lee's face now, his blue eyes narrowed and crinkling lines at the corners, his voice strained as though _he_ had been the one getting choked. Paulla believed him. Believed he would kill her. She tried to keep her head up, swaying weakly on all fours in the mud, and his bloody lip caught her eye, smeared with coagulating blood and puffy from her slap.

"I won't stop next time," Lee repeated and Paulla wondered hazily if he was trying to convince her or himself of that. She nodded and breathed deep, dropping her head as his fingers released her chin and staring blankly at the sticky oozing mud underneath her.

Paulla heard him get up and leave with slow squishing steps in the mud, heard the crackle and brush of the undergrowth as he headed into the forest. Her muscles trembled from adrenaline and fear – and desire mingled with disgust – and her throat felt tender, half-closed and bruised as frak. Paulla retched weakly but nothing came up, struggling off all fours and sitting on her ass in the mud - she couldn't get any filthier, physically or metaphorically. At least her insidious and unwelcome desire had been obliterated by dizzy nausea now.

Paulla sat for a while, knees drawn up to her chest and arms wrapped around her knees, head resting on them. Tried to summon the feelings of hatred she had toward Lee, rather than the confusing and sickening thrills of arousal. When she finally felt strong enough to move she stumbled down into the stream and sat down in _that_. The icy water was shocking and her skin puckered into goosebumps but Paulla forced herself to lay back in the shallow water, almost completely submerged, long hair floating out with the current. There was something cleansing about letting the crystal clear snowmelt wash away the mud and soothe her hot, swollen throat. Her thoughts were clear and sharp as she lifted herself out of the water and began slowly and painfully gathering up her forgotten washing, hands trembling and teeth chattering from the cold.

_Frak_ Lee Adama. Paulla would be a slave to no man, and whether his threats were idle or sincere, she wasn't going to obey his orders like a dog at his heels. She smiled slowly to herself, fingers rubbing firmly over the bruise on her abdomen – the pain spurring her on. No, if Lee thought he had broken her then he was _sorely _mistaken. She would just have to be more careful, that was all.

# # #

The house was dark, and Romo had no idea what time it was. It could have been nine in the morning or nine at night – the shutters hadn't been opened since the day of Jake's death. Romo had cremated his body by himself – he hadn't even wanted Manya there, in the end. He didn't want to risk breaking down in front of her. No, he had watched Jake's body alone, watched as it burnt to bone, flames leaping up into the hot air of the plains, making the air shimmer more than usual. And then, when it was over and done, Romo had gone to Joe's and gotten several large bottles of Joe's strongest brew. He had shrugged off any sympathy or calls to come and drink with people. No, Romo had gone home and started drinking, and he hadn't stopped until all the alcohol was gone and he was dead drunk on the floor. He had closed the shutters that night and hadn't opened them since.

Romo played with the lip of the bottle he held now – half empty, and he wasn't drunk enough. He stretched out on the bed, bottle cradled to his chest, gulping occasionally at the contents. The alcohol was potent and seared his throat on the way down, tracing a warm trail from his lips to his stomach. He thought about Manya, about saying Faye's name during that messy encounter that never should have happened. And that, of course, made him think about Faye.

Romo closed his eyes and tears trickled from the corners, making his cheeks itch and tickle and he scrubbed them away. He didn't want to cry, but the tears came anyway, unbidden and unwelcome. He had tried for so long not to feel anything about Faye. He had thought of her, spoken of her – even joked about her. But it had all been intellectual, divorced from any feelings just like _they_ had been at the end. Still together but apart, their relationship a tangled mess of sleeping in the spare room and avoiding each other's eyes at the breakfast table – emotionally estranged. And so he had estranged himself from his grief and his devastation as best he could. And just as back then, so long ago, he had realised he couldn't deny how much he needed her – now he couldn't deny how much he grieved for her.

Jake's death had been the catalyst Lance's hadn't been; finally triggering a release of all the emotions Romo had tried to deny himself. And with the floodgates opened, everything had come thundering through and it drowned him, crushed him under its weight. Not just Faye, but Jennifer. Kate. And gods, if grieving for one's wife was bad, then grieving for one's children was a living hell. He dug the photo out of his bedside drawer and held it carefully in trembling fingers. It was the only one he had. They had looked so much like their mother, but with wide smiles and sparkling eyes so unlike Faye's grave countenance.

Jennifer had been beginning to take notice of fashion and prettiness; wanting all the right clothes and sneaking tubes of her mother's lipstick to paint her childish mouth. Wanting to be like the other little girls and make pretend she was a woman at the tender age of eight. Although behind the longing to fit in with the other girls had been a quick, sharp mind – Romo had heard more convincing arguments from Jennifer than he had from many a prosecutor. He looked at her round face in the worn photo. Grinning at the person behind the camera – it had been Romo, and he remembered that afternoon with painful clarity. She would have been twelve now, if she had lived – gods he hated thinking that. If she had lived. Because she was dead now. Dead. _Frak_. She would have been giggling about boys and having sleepovers with gaggles of other girls, and would have probably thought Romo was a great embarrassment.

Romo took another long drink, waiting for the blessed numbness that inebriation brought. Unfortunately, first he had to pass through the maudlin stage. He took another drink, staring at the beige screen that walled off his bedroom without really seeing it.

Kate had been five and had just started school a few months before…_before_. Only five and she had already been walking around with her nose permanently stuck in a book. Tall and gangly, all long coltish limbs; Faye couldn't get her into a dress, they were too impractical, she had told her parents with a serious expression on her delicate face. For a moment she had looked the spitting image of Faye, and then she had grinned and Romo had melted. She may not have liked dresses, but she had emulated her older sister in stealing Faye's make up and they would catch her in the bathroom with a face like a clown's. If Romo couldn't find her inside, then he looked for her outside, and would find her nestled in the fork of a tree's branches with one of her books. He wondered where her body lay. If she had been reading.

His brain was dulled enough by the alcohol, and it dwelled on things he wanted to pretend didn't exist. It wondered if they had died instantly, or if they had survived the initial attack only to die slowly of radiation sickness. If they had been together at the time, or if the girls had ended up separated from Faye, dying alone and frightened. He imagined Jennifer and Kate without him, without Faye, too small to have a hope of fending for themselves. Imagined them clinging together and crying hopeless tears. Dying. The blast? Murder by looters and criminals? Radiation poisoning? Starvation? So many possibilities. And except for Faye – maybe – they had been alone.And Romo hadn't been there.

_He should have been there_.

Gods.

He tucked the photo back in its drawer, and he drank, just like he did every night now; anytime, in fact, that he wasn't working. And Romo spent a lot of time not working – more than usual these days now he had Louis Hoshi as his efficient assistant. And so Romo sat at home and drank and drank until his mind was too heavy and muddled to torment him, and oblivion crept over him. He put the bottle to his lips again and nothing came out, and he held it up, examined it with fuzzy eyes and a tilt to his head. It was empty. Huh. He didn't remember drinking it all…somehow time had slipped away from him. He smiled. Reached out for another bottle.

There was always more alcohol.

A while later – how much later Romo didn't know but this new bottle was only half full now – a sound raised him from his drunken stupor. He blinked and listened. Knocking at the door.

"Romo? Romo, are you all right?" Manya's voice came muffled through the door and he groaned. He didn't want to face her. He wasn't sure why, but he knew there was a reason… He – he remembered it vaguely. How long ago it had happened Romo didn't know, but he remembered what had happened, and like most things wished he could forget. Telling her that he didn't care about her and then frakking her with the coarse vulgarity and gracelessness that only a drunk could achieve, and then saying Faye's name.

"Romo! If you don't answer this door I _will_ get Showboat to break it down!" Manya's voice snapped through the air, perfectly audible even through the door. Romo swore to himself and struggled off the bed. Feet tangling in the sheet he nearly tripped over and stumbled against the wall with a dull thump and a curse. Romo's head was spinning and he felt like vomiting; so frakked it felt like the floor was swaying under him as he took cautious, clumsy steps. He clung onto the edge of the screen for a second, blinking hard and shaking his head, trying to clear it a little. It didn't help. So he had another drink from the bottle that was still in his hand instead. That didn't help either.

"Romo! I swear to the gods, I am serious!" Manya's anxiousness penetrated the fog that enveloped Romo's mind and he started walking again, the distance from bedroom to door suddenly seeming immense.

"One minute!" he tried to call and it came out slurred and hoarse instead of crisp and smooth like he had intended. Gods he was a bloody mess. Romo paused before he opened the door, running a hand over his mussed hair and rubbing his face vigorously. He generally tried to tidy up himself up slightly when he had to go out and be the _President_ – even just a quick wash and fresh clothes did wonders. But there was no chance to do that now. Romo knew he must look like death warmed up; eyes no doubt bloodshot and red-rimmed, his usual several days' stubble a scruffy two-week growth that complemented his equally scruffy clothing, his skin pallid and his hands trembling slightly. It couldn't be helped. And he was so drunk that his moment of caring what Manya thought of him came and went swiftly. The only thing that worried him was that she would try to fix him up, cut him off from his supply of alcohol again.

He had another long swig just in case she tried and succeeded.

"Manya." He opened the door just wide enough that he could stand in the opening and block her from coming in. It was light out still, the sun bright enough that it was probably mid-afternoon. Manya and Showboat were standing close together and talking in quiet, worried tones, and both stopped mid-conversation and stared at him with mingled embarrassment and concern. So they had been talking about him. Romo found he had a distinct lack of caring. The blessed bloody alcohol, working its magic. He realised with brief consternation that the bottle was in full sight of the two women and then decided he didn't care about that either – even took a sip while meeting Manya's eyes. Frak her. He could drink if he liked. But instead of feeling stupidly rebellious, Romo just felt ashamed as her brown eyes met his without accusation or judgement but just a deep sadness.

"How exactly can I help you, Ms Yelizarov?" he asked and a part of his brain was horrified by how inebriated he sounded as he swayed in the doorway. Manya looked him up and down and her face was filled with pity that Romo didn't want.

"I just wanted to check that you were okay, Romo."

"I'm fine. Perfectly well, thank you."

Showboat was staring at Romo and he raised an eyebrow, staring back. She turned away, embarrassed, and resumed her proper position by the doorway, eyes focused on the street and not Romo and Manya. Romo turned his raised eyebrow on Manya.

"Was there any other purpose to this visit?"

"Romo…" Manya sighed, a crease forming vertically between her eyes, her mouth down turned and tired. A pang twinged at him. It was because of him that she looked so weary and worried.

"Yes?" his mouth asked, cool despite the slurring.

"Can, can we talk inside?" She stepped forward, hand reaching out toward him in a hopeful, aimless gesture. Romo found himself shaking his head,

"No. I'm afraid I'm busy at the moment."

Manya's face fell further and she glanced at Showboat, back at Romo.

"Busy drinking yourself to death?" she asked tightly and quietly, and Showboat focused intently on appearing deaf.

Romo shrugged,

"Drinking, at any rate. I think 'to death' is a bit of an exaggeration."

"You can't do this forever."

"I am completely aware of that."

"Its unsustainable on many levels."

"I am also aware of _that_," Romo sighed and shifted his hand on the door. He wanted to shut her out before he invited her in. And gods, a part of him wanted to invite her in and just let it all go and accept the comfort she offered him. Allow Manya to be there for him, to support him, just like she wanted. But he rejected that pitiful wish, crushed it coldly. He didn't want to do that, and he didn't need a repeat of the last time he had seen her. When _had _that been? This morning? It seemed like far longer than that, somehow, but then the alcohol played tricks with his mind lately.

"Romo, _please_. You were meant to be at a Council meeting this afternoon, and you didn't show. You're starting to neglect your duties now. This can't go on."

_Frak_. Romo hadn't realised… That wasn't good. He couldn't afford to slip any further. But he didn't say anything, just chewed on his tongue, staring at Manya and trying to appear unmoved and dispassionate.

"You have to face it eventually. You can't avoid it forever."

"I know. But I'll take what I can get," Romo replied tiredly, beginning to feel too sober. He nodded at Manya,

"Good day, Ms Yelizarov."

He shut the door on her before she could say anything else, and made his slow and stumbling way back toward his bed, drinking as he went. He settled back on the bed with a groan and his hand went unwillingly to the bedside table drawer, questing fingers finding the photo. He held it in one hand and the bottle of alcohol in the other, and just stared and drank, vision wavering with tears.

Manya knocked and knocked, but Romo ignored her, lost in memories of the time before; reminding him of everything he had lost. All the memories painted rosy pink with nostalgia and longing, and barbed with the sting of never-again. They drew him in and trapped him, and even the alcohol couldn't stop it from hurting. He sat alone and drank and wept, a shadow wrapped in alcohol fumes and loss.

After a while the knocking stopped.

# # #

_Author's Note: _So, my big question for this chapter is… What did you think of the perspective flip on the scene with Lee and Paulla? Did I succeed in making you feel bad for her, and slightly disgusted with (or at least disappointed in) Lee? Toward the end she gets conniving again…but honestly, I would want to get my revenge on someone who choked me half to death and threatened to finish me off by going back to doing what they don't want me to. In this particular situation, I personally severely disapprove of Lee's actions, and find myself admiring Paulla as a strong female character. In the grand scheme of things, she's still the terrorist-wannabe enemy, and Lee's still the 'good guy'…and yet I think Lee's actions were inexcusable. What do you think? I always love to hear your thoughts :)

Oh, and the weird and uncomfortable sexual feelings on Paulla's part…what are your thoughts on those?

I strive toward creating a realistic and objective perspective, by making all the characters capable of doing terrible things and being terrible people (except for Helo _of course_, he's like the gorgeous, well-muscled moral compass for the show). I want to write 'villains' as people you can at times sympathise with, and 'heroes' as people you can be awfully disappointed in sometimes. Let's all say together, _moral ambiguity_. So did I achieve it?

Awww…Romo is so _sad_ :( I just want to give him cuddles, but instead I'll probably just write more depressing misery for him before it gets any better. I'm mean that way, but in my defence it's just _so fun_ writing him as an emotional wreck.

I described a little of his life before the Fall – I couldn't find a lot of detail on it, so I tried to fill in the blanks and (slightly) flesh out what his family was like without contradicting canon. I did good? :D

So please, leave me a _review _and let me know if I succeeded in making you feel sorry for Paulla and disappointed in Lee, and whether you approve of Romo's drunken, grieving misery!


	5. An Inch Away From Falling

Author's Note: Thank you everyone for your wonderful reviews! I appreciate getting them so, so much :)

_Enjoy!_

# # #

_An Inch Away From Falling_

"Dead?"

"Yup. Full on tongue-sticking-out, purple-faced, shat-himself _dead_." Starbuck paused, seeing Leon's face in horrible clarity before her eyes. She puffed on her cigar and waved the clouds of bluish smoke lazily away, flicking a glance at Hoshi and continuing,

"Frakking disgusting, a hanging. If you wanna look good at your funeral, don't off yourself like that. It does _not_ leave you lookin' pretty."

Hoshi shuddered delicately, nose crinkling up with disgust.

"I'll keep that in mind," he commented dryly and his tone prompted a grin from Starbuck. She plucked her stub of a cigar from her mouth and took a small sip of her drink. It was a good brew; strong, tart, and smelling faintly of berries and wood.

"Gods, I came here to forget about that clusterfrak, not detail it," she berated herself, clamping the cigar back between her teeth.

"Tell me, Hoshi, how's ya job going?"

Hoshi shrugged, sighed, and swirled circles in his drink with the tip of his finger.

"It's all right, I guess. Better than what I was doing. But I tell you, it's not fun trying to deal with the President at the moment."

Starbuck knew what Hoshi meant. Romo had been holed up in his home since his dog had died, only leaving when he absolutely had to. At least it had meant when she was on his bodyguard shift she didn't have to roam around Landfall. Although standing outside his house doing shit all for hours on end wasn't exactly a barrel of laughs either. In the end she had used her position of relative authority to put other LPOs on the job, and she hadn't seen Romo in almost a week now.

"He's still hiding away, then?"

"He is. He doesn't leave the house. Makes me bring documents to him to look over and sign rather than going to his office at the Council, and lately he doesn't seem to be reading them as carefully as he should be…" Hoshi trailed off ad sighed, rubbed a hand over his forehead.

"I just hope he sorts himself out soon."

"Yeah," Starbuck nodded her agreement, not really listening anymore. Hoshi noticed and changed the subject, grinning a little.

"So, how are things at home?"

Starbuck raised an eyebrow and Hoshi nudged her arm,

"You and Lee?" he prompted and Starbuck couldn't stop a smile from spreading across her face.

"Good. We're…good," she said reluctantly. Talking about personal things with Hoshi still felt a little awkward when they weren't frakked off their faces, but it was nice to have someone to air her feelings to. Starbuck had never really had that before. She was still smiling, glancing at Hoshi and nodding slowly,

"Yeah. For once, things are good. Peaceful. It's nice, you know?" She stopped,

"Sorry… I mean…" Thoughts of Gaeta flashed through Starbuck's head and she dropped her eyes to her glass.

"It's fine, Starbuck."

She looked up at Hoshi and he smiled slightly, and she returned the expression.

"So you finally sorted yourself out, huh?" Hoshi continued and Starbuck snorted.

"Hah. Not by a long shot. Lee and me are good, but that's about all. The rest of my life is still…" She sighed heavily and took a look drink, draining her half-full glass and clattering it back down on the bar.

"Let me guess," Hoshi began,

"No luck with figuring out your 'I am _not_ an angel' issue?"

Starbuck snorted again at Hoshi's choice of description. She had told him about her situation a while ago after several too many drinks, and once the cat had gotten out of the bag she had figured she might as well keep confiding in him. She didn't feel she could talk to Lee, and there was no one else to talk to except Sam. And being comatose, he was kind of lacking in helpful feedback.

She pushed her glass around the bar top aimlessly, shoving it back and forth between her hands.

"I thought I'd talk to Leon. That's why I went to visit him today and got to be the lucky one who found his body." Starbuck stared hard into her empty glass as though if she looked hard enough it might fill up with all the answers to her questions.

"Didn't he try to kill you?"

"Well, yeah…but I got to thinking… Maybe all the crazy shit he was saying that day wasn't so crazy. Maybe he really _did_ know something. The Twos…well, they creep the living frak outta me, but they do seem to have some sort of direct line into prophecy and destiny and all that shit." She swore and plucked the stub of her cigar out of her mouth, hooked an ashtray over and ground it out viciously, lips pursing up.

"Not that it matters now that he's gone and killed himself. Cowardly bastard."

"He was a person too, Starbuck." Hoshi wasn't outwardly reproachful but Starbuck knew who he was thinking about and she winced inwardly, flashing Hoshi a rueful, apologetic smile.

"Sorry man. I didn't think…"  
"I know he tried to kill you, and one of his iterations kidnapped you on New Caprica, and…well… You have no reason to _like_ the guy. At all. But he was still a person who, for whatever reason…" Hoshi couldn't' seem to find the words and Starbuck awkwardly reached out and patted his hand where it lay on the bar top. She frowned,

"Gaeta wasn't anything like Leon."

"No. No, he really wasn't." Hoshi looked at Starbuck, surprised. She felt bad seeing the gratitude in his eyes; it couldn't be easy for him to be still grieving for someone who everyone else hated. He gulped and his eyebrows crinkled together as he met Starbuck's eyes,

"But Leon was still a person, just like Felix. We shouldn't…shouldn't make light of the dead."

And Starbuck thought about it from Hoshi's perspective; knowing that people were _glad_ your lover had been executed, that people who _had_ been friends with both of you had been the ones to carry out the execution. Despite what he had done in the end, Gaeta had been a person. So had Leon, as much as it grated on Starbuck to admit it.

"No. I shouldn't," she allowed grudgingly. She wasn't the type to be gracious about such things.

"Anyway, now my best lead is dead."

"What about the other Twos?" Hoshi asked as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, and Starbuck shifted uncomfortably on her seat. It was obvious, and she had been deliberately not thinking about it. It would have been bad enough talking to Leon, but canvassing the other Twos until she found one willing to talk to her? Gods, nothing could sound worse. She told Hoshi so and he looked sympathetic but shrugged,

"What other options do you have?"

"I don't even know if any of them would talk to me. They've been avoiding me ever since I…" Her voice dropped and the words came out in a rush as she continued,

"Found my body with one on the 13th colony."

"If one of them would talk to you, surely you'd be able to find another, or…_convince_ another to talk to you."

"What, like, with violence?" Starbuck's voice perked up a little and she smirked playfully,

"Why Hoshi, I would never have expected a suggestion like that from _you_."

He smiled faintly,

"I said _convince_, not _torture_."

"I don't know…"

"You're making excuses."

"The others might not even know as much as Leon did!" Starbuck protested, knowing full well that she was, in fact, just making excuses. It had taken her long enough to build up the courage to talk to Leon. She couldn't face the prospect of talking to another Two, for potentially no gains.

"They're all Twos. I'm pretty sure that what one knows, the others will too." Hoshi countered and Starbuck shook her head, grasping at straws now,

"Since they stopped being able to resurrect they've started becoming individuals. Like Leon – he was different to Leoben. _Crazier_," she added as an aside and then continued on hurriedly,

"And Sharon – she's different. Sarah. Alice. Caprica, of course… They aren't just a number any more, one of many, and they don't share information like they used to."  
"Good point. But I still think there's a good chance that more than one Two has had visions about your destiny and your 'I am not an angel' situation." Hoshi smiled knowingly at Starbuck.

"You're just afraid to talk to them."

"One of them held me prisoner for months! Tried to…" Starbuck broke off that line of thought. No good ever came from remembering what had happened back then. She tried again,

"And Leon _did_ try to kill me!"

"You said it yourself, they're individuals now." Hoshi grinned smugly and Starbuck fumed to herself. She'd backed herself into a corner. Maybe she'd done it on purpose even – manoeuvred Hoshi into being the motivator she couldn't be for herself. Because she knew…

"All right. You're frakking right," Starbuck admitted grudgingly,

"I'll go find a damn Two to talk to."

She lifted a hand in the air and with a flick of her fingers caught Joe's eye, the man flinging a tea towel over his shoulder and moseying over toward her and Hoshi.

"But first, I'm having a drink."

Once she and Hoshi were topped up with some non-descript alcoholic substance, Starbuck paused and held up her glass tentatively before she drank, tossing up whether or not to do what was niggling at her. Hoshi stopped with his glass halfway to his mouth and looked at her curiously. She exhaled sharply and nodded at him to raise his glass and he did so, face puzzled. Starbuck grimaced but said,

"To Leon Conoy. May he find his peace with the gods."

Hoshi gave her a startled glance and Starbuck knew he must be surprised by her show of emotion. His surprise bothered her a little. She wasn't sure if she should be pleased or ashamed that she apparently appeared so cold outwardly. But Hoshi's voice pulled her out of further introspection,

"So say we all," he murmured, and they chinked their glasses together.

# # #

"The bastard! Who does he think he is? Gods, I hate him!" Paulla paced furiously up and down the length of the small cabin, empty now – the children having been collected by their families. Jeanne watched her with frightened eyes from her seat at the table.

"He can't just… Gods I hate him!" Her voice was hoarse but growing in volume and Jeanne flashed a look at the doorway into the tiny bedroom.

"Paulla, please, you'll wake –" Jeanne juddered to a stop mid-sentence as Paulla fixed her with a glare, and Paulla paused in her pacing and shot Jeanne an apologetic look.

"Sorry." She resumed her pacing and ranting, but in a low, fierce mutter now, mostly talking to herself. Lee was an asshole. A total asshole. She touched her throat gingerly – they didn't have any mirrors, but Jeanne had assured Paulla it had bruised, and badly. Not that Paulla needed to be told; she could feel where Lee Adama's fingers had branded her, every mark burning and tender. It hurt to swallow and her head ached from tension, her stomach carrying a faint bruise as well from where Lee had hit her. He must have held back, Paulla admitted to herself, or the bruising would have been worse. She almost wished- no, she _did_ wish he hadn't held back. Somehow the fact that he had calculatedly pulled the punch made he angrier. It meant both that his blow hadn't been struck in blind instinct but in deliberate cold-bloodedness, and that he didn't see her as an equal, but as a weak woman.

_Godsdamn him_.

Paulla made herself stop pacing and slumped onto a wobbly seat and shoved her elbows onto the table, cupping her chin in her hands and scowling. Jeanne took the slight lull in tension as a chance to scuttle up from her perched position on the edge of a chair and light a homemade taper at the fire, lighting a few candles around the room. The sun was nearly set and the room would have been in near complete dark without the leaping fire. Paulla stared into the flames and dwelled on what had happened. When she had gotten home with the dripping laundry Jeanne had taken one look at her and gone into fluttery panic, full of unhelpful sympathy and recriminations toward Lee. Paulla's lips curved into a humourless smile as she watched the fire dance; even Jeanne, no the brightest star in the sky, had realised immediately that it had been Lee Adama who had injured Paulla.

Jeanne sat back down at the table opposite Paulla and Paulla managed a smile, trying to reassure her nervous friend.

"You should eat something," Jeanne encouraged, and Paulla shook her head.

"It hurts too much to swallow. Besides, I'm not hungry anyway."

Jeanne worried her lower lip between her teeth and her face distorted with worry for Paulla.

"You can't let him get away with this. He can't just…_hurt_ you. It's wrong!"

Paulla laughed, a short rough sound barely recognizable as a laugh.

"Who am I supposed to tell, Jeanne? The only authority around here is the man who did this to me?" Paulla's eyes dropped to the rough wood of the table and she placed her hands on the wood, staring down at them. She clenched and unclenched her fists. Despite being toughened by the work they did these days they were still slim and small – she was no physical match for Lee Adama. The only way to stop him herself would be to either acquiesce to his demands, or get a couple of her little group of loyal followers to take him on. An image flashed in her mind of Lee being given a taste of his own medicine. For some reason the vision evoked a feeling of uneasy aversion rather than the pleasure she thought that it should.

"There's nothing I can do." Her voice was low and defeated and Jeanne placed one of her hands over Paulla's and squeezed,

"We'll figure out something."

"No. We won't. The only way to stop Lee is to either fall in line or get someone to threaten him. And I don't want to do either of those." Paulla saw mixed relief and confusion in Jeanne's eyes as Paulla admitted the last part. She hadn't told Jeanne the sickening but undeniable feelings she had toward Lee. Those were too private and shameful to admit to anyone, not even her best and only real friend.

"So what are you going to do? Maybe – maybe you should just do what he says?" Jeanne was hesitant and stuttering. Her eyes met Paulla's and real fear settled in their depths,

"This time was worse than last time. What happens next time?"

Paulla didn't want to think about that. She pushed the possibility from her mind and straightened her spine, and made herself look as confident and determined as possible.

"I'm not going to let that frakker push me around. Screw Lee Adama. He can't bully me into doing what he wants." She grimaced and her mouth tightened, eyes narrowed.

"I'm going to keep doing exactly what I have been. I'll deal with the consequences later." Paulla nodded, hearing herself speak the words aloud giving her a boost to her confidence,

"Yeah. Tomorrow I'll send the word around to meet at lunch," Jeanne had cancelled the meeting that had been planned for tonight when she had seen Paulla's state,

"And we'll discuss my plans for Landfall."

"I don't want to see you get hurt," Jeanne fretted and Paulla smiled, humourless but assured, eyes glittering in the firelight.

"I know. Hopefully it won't be me who's getting hurt. But regardless of what Lee Adama might do, I'm going ahead. Godsdamnit, I won't let that arrogant, self-righteous prick push me around anymore." Paulla leaned back in her seat and nodded, feel the heat of anticipation prickle over her skin. Her fingers traced her throat, the swollen marks. The pain focused her mind further, made her more determined to stick it to Lee. She sighed contentedly and kept smiling at Jeanne, who didn't seem very reassured.

"Is dinner still on offer?" Paulla asked quietly, changing her tone, and Jeanne's face lit up. She liked to be helpful, to think she was making a difference. And truth be told, Paulla wouldn't have made it as far as she had without Jeanne. The two worked well together – Paulla looked out for Jeanne, and Jeanne gave Paulla someone to look out for. A reason to justify the ruthlessness she was capable of – to reframe it as doing what she had to, to make sure Jeanne and people like her were safe and well-cared for.

"Of course," Jeanne pushed herself up from her chair and hurried to find plates and cutlery, and Paulla watched her with an affectionate smile. The best way to make sure Jeanne was perfectly safe and well off, was to be the person at the top; to be in control, in charge – to hold a position of power. If Paulla were to examine her reasoning too closely it would be obvious that those reasons were all just excuses, to rationalize the drive to gain power that she craved in and of itself. But then denial was a powerful force.

A bowl of steaming stew was set before her and Paulla smiled at Jeanne,

"Thank you." She took a whiff of the food and said truthfully,

"This smells delicious."

Jeanne ducked her head at the praise and picked up the shirt she had been mending before Paulla's rant had driven her to put it down with worry. Her fingers moved quickly making tiny, neat stitches and Paulla watched with half an eye as she made herself eat the stew, her mind busily formulating the details of her plan.

# # #

It was dark now, and Lee knew he should go home before Starbuck started worrying, but he didn't think he could face her. So here he was, sitting by the tiny stream that burbled past their cabin and staring into the water, mind going over and over the scene by another stream earlier in the day. He found it hard to believe now that he had done those things. He could remember it all perfectly, but he felt strangely divorced from it. Dissociated. The breeze rustled through the trees and a few early autumn leaves fluttered down around him, a bloody rust colour in the twilight. Lee looked at one and had a flash of memory – his fist, sinking satisfyingly into Paulla's stomach as his balls throbbed and his lower belly ached along with them. It had felt so frighteningly good for a moment, seeing the arrogant defiance wiped off her face.

Lee touched his cheek, feeling the small ragged marks Paulla had torn down his face as she had struggled and thrashed for breath. Oh, oh yes he remembered it clearly now – no longer dissociated. Even after the blow to her stomach Paulla hadn't stayed subdued for long. She was a fighter, godsdamnit. She had forced him to take things further, always that one godsdamned step further. The frakking feisty bitch. She just wouldn't stay down. Wouldn't listen to reason. If Lee had held a gun to her temple, he was convinced Paulla would have told him to pull the trigger – _demanded_ it and laughed at him when he refused.

He thought, rather childishly, _she started it_. Because, well, she had – she had slapped him. Not once, but twice. And gods the woman had a frakking strong arm on her. Lee's jaw still ached, and he fit his hand around it, wriggled it experimentally. He didn't think there was any real damage. She would be feeling just as sore tonight; Lee was sure of it, and grinned. A twinge of guilt over thinking such a thing pushed up, and he shoved it back down, still too angry to want to think about right and wrong clearly yet. Still justifying his actions rather than examining them.

He had shaken her and shoved her back up against the tree, tried to tell her just how important it was for her to stop her stupid godsdamned plans for violence. And she had glared t him through narrowed eyes, called him a _sick bastard_ and stomped on his foot, hard. Lee hadn't wanted to hurt her anymore than she had already made him. He had almost _begged_ Paulla to stop. To _listen_ to him. But she had pushed, and pushed, and left Lee no choice. That was what he told himself, until all but a little stubborn kernel of him believed it. But that kernel wouldn't go away, sending tendrils of guilt and remorse winding through him, digging into his belly and writhing behind his eyes.

"I didn't have a choice," Lee said aloud and when he heard it spoken like that, into the clear fresh air of the evening…he didn't believe it anymore.

He plucked a leaf from the ground and started delicately pulling it apart, flicking the little bits into the air to skim on the breeze before tumbling back to the ground. His mind ticked over grindingly, examining the _incident_ with Paulla from every possible angle. No matter how he looked at it, on a personal individual level he was in the wrong. If he had done that in Landfall, on Galactica or back on the Colonies, he would have been up on assault charges.

Because that was what he had done.

He had assaulted Paulla.

Lee Adama had assaulted a woman, who in comparison to him was defenceless and helpless. He had struck her and choked the life half out of her and then, _then_, when she had agreed to do what he wanted, he had choked her some more. Choked her until her eyes had almost rolled up in her head and her useless flailing for escape had weakened and failed. He had made Paulla _know_ that he could have killed her. Lee hummed low and unhappy under his breath and sighed.

He could have killed her. Not just that he physically _could_ have – no, he meant he really had almost killed her. Just a few moments longer to starve her brain of oxygen…or a hard squeeze to crush her windpipe… He had been a bare fraction from tightening his grip further and just doing it. Ending her. There was something about the furious anger in Paulla's eyes that made his palms itch to close around her throat, something in the way she fought him to the end that made his blood rush hot and quick in his temples.

What was she turning him into?

Maybe he _should_ have just killed her.

Lee's humming stuck in his throat as he realised what he had just thought, idly down by the stream while the early autumn leaves fluttered over his head. It was a cruel, brutal thought, and Lee didn't want to own it as his. He lay back on the patchy grass on the stream bank and looked up at the sky, little dappled sprinkles of the dark navy of night visible through the tree canopy. The occasional star peeking through and winking at him, glittering down. Tears welled up in his eyes and he bit his lip and refused to cry.

Lee couldn't justify what he had done to Paulla. He wasn't sorry it was done, and if it had truly been the only way, then if Lee had to go back in time he would do it again the same way. And hate himself still, like he did right now. Alone in private with his thoughts, Lee had the luxury of shame and guilt and self-hatred. But when it came right down to the line, Lee had to do what was best for everyone – just like he had told Paulla. And godsdamnit, he had done it. He had made sure she would be too afraid to try anything else again. Even she couldn't be ballsy enough to try anything now.

He gazed up at the sky through the bare spaces in the canopy with his head pillowed on his hands, and watched the stars sparkle. Lee's eyes prickled and his eyes squeezed tight shut for a moment. Prayed to whatever gods might be out there and listening, that he would never have to do that again. The tears came now. Lee didn't want to do that again. Didn't want to _be_ that again.

Paulla on her knees before him – slumped in the mud with her long silky hair hanging tangled around her face, wrenching in choking, gasping breaths. Lee standing above her, his hand aching pleasantly from the continued pressure he had been exerting on her fragile throat, a thrum of power resonating in his bones. A feeling that was both sickening and so godsdamned alluring, and Lee never, ever wanted to feel it again.

"Lee?" _Her_ voice came soft through the trees and he smiled, staring up at the stars, tears drying up. He rolled his head and smiled into the growing dark. Kara picked her way down the stream bank and sat close to him.

"Hi," he said and pulled her closer, a rush of warm comfortable love washing through him and driving out his previous thoughts. She lay down beside him and their hands interlinked, and for a fearful moment Lee wondered if she could somehow feel what he had done with his hands today. He swallowed hard and stared resolutely up at the sky.

"You didn't come home," Kara said after a long peaceful silence, and Lee sighed.

"It's nice out here."

"It is," she agreed and nestled closer to him, and he released her hand and pulled her even closer, so that her head lay nestled on his shoulder, and his arm wrapped around her back.

"Did you have a good day? Drinking with Hoshi?" Lee nudged her cheek with a twitch of his shoulder and Kara snorted softly, long blonde hair fanning out and tickling the side of his face. He put up with the sensation, just glad to have her here in his arms.

"Mostly. The drinking with Hoshi part was good. Other than that, it was a bit of a clusterfrak though." Kara groaned with frustration and went boneless against him and he jiggled her with his arm,

"What was?" he asked and she made an irritated noise, sighed harshly.

"Leon hanged himself in his cell today."

"Gods." Lee was taken aback, eyebrows scrunching together, "_Really_?"

"Yup." Kara popped her lips on the 'p' and heaved another sigh.

"I, um, went in to see him," she began hesitantly, and Lee frowned. Why would she want to go visit Leon? He smiled grimly to himself as he thought he figured it out; most likely to do something similar to what he did today to Paulla. He cringed as the thought entered his head and tried to focus on what Kara was saying.

"…He must have been dead for a coupla hours at least. Gods he looked frakking _disgusting_."

"Why did he do it? Did he leave any kind of note…?" Lee didn't really care, but it was something to distract himself from thoughts of Paulla. Kara shook her head against him, and Lee had to fish a few strands of her hair out of his mouth.

"No," she answered, "But then there wasn't anything for him to leave a note with, unless he'd opened a vein. And I don't think there was anything sharp in the cell to do _that _with either."

She sounded a little too flippant on the surface and Lee had known Kara long enough to sense the undercurrent of uneasiness.

"Nothing at all?" he prodded and she shifted uncomfortably in his arms.

"He – he made a heart out of a piece of rope," she confessed and Lee clutched her a little tighter.

"For you?"

"Who else?" she replied lightly, and he knew without needing to see that she was smiling that wide, bitter smile of hers, eyes humourless. Lee wasn't sure what to say. That was godsdamned _creepy_. A last declaration of the Two's unrequited love. Gods.

"Frakking crazy bastard," Lee said quietly and held Kara close. They lay in silence together for a time, looking up at the stars peeking through the treetops. She pushed herself up on one elbow, hovering over him, lips and eyes contrasting with her moonlit complexion. Her lips met his and they were soft, her mouth warm as Lee kissed her deeper, mouths locked together and the flicks of her tongue making his cock twitch and harden. Her hand came up to his face, fingers sweeping lightly from his forehead down his cheek and Lee felt a flare of pain and winced, pulling away as her fingertips dragged over the scratches Paulla had left.

He panicked silently, mind racing. He hadn't thought of the scratches; hadn't come up with a harmless explanation of how he had gotten hurt. Lee didn't want to tell Kara the truth – he didn't know how the hell she would react. Kara frowned down at him, a vertical crease appearing between her eyebrows, "You okay? What's that?"

"Just a few scratches," he answered lightly and Kara worried at her lower lip, reaching out with careful fingers and examining the small wounds in the pallid light. He would have enjoyed her concern and her gentle touch, but his mind was too busy trying to formulate lies to explain the wounds.

"How'd you do that?"

"Chopping wood today – scratched myself somehow."

Kara lifted an eyebrow, "I'm not stupid, Lee. Those are nail marks. I can see that even in the frakking dark."

Lee shifted uncomfortably, "It was Paulla," he admitted reluctantly and heard Kara hiss in a short, angry breath.

"What the hell?" she sympathised, "Gods, I hate that frakking bitch."

She paused, head cocked to one side as she stared down at him, still stroking around the shallow gouges.

"What happened?"

"Kit – you know Kit? – told me that she was starting to plan trouble again. I went to, um, try and talk her out of it, and we argued, and she did this," he lied blithely in half-truths, and inwardly sighed with relief as she accepted his words at face value. But then why wouldn't she? There was no reason for her to believe he was lying – she disliked Paulla as much as Lee did, if not more.

"Did you clean it out?" she asked, still leaning over him, the ends of her hair tickling his cheeks and neck, pale as cornsilk in the moonlight. Lee shook his head and she sighed, sat up and grabbed his hand, tugging at it.

"Come on then. I'll fix you up," she smiled at him affectionately, "The last thing you need is to get an infection," adding in a darker tone under her breath as she thought of Paulla, "Bitch."

Lee grinned, feeling light and relaxed, his internal struggles over the ethics of what he had done to Paulla fading to nothingness as he let Kara pull him to his feet. She led him away from the stream with her hand clutched tightly to his, fingers entwined. It was comfortable and happy, an easy feeling between them that for so long Lee had wished for and never gotten, and he couldn't wipe the grin off his face.

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_Author's Note: _ You know what to do…go find that _review_ button :D


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